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JAMESIE 


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JAMESIE 


BY 


ETHEL  SIDGWICK 


jscmgj 


BOSTON 

SMALL,  MAYNARD  &  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


THE    UNIVERSITY    PRESS,    CAMBRIDGE,    U.S.A. 


.ass 


To  H. 

WHO    HAD    ACCEPTED    IT,  IN    PROJECT, 

UNREAD 


PREFACE,  IF  WANTED 

[BY  JAMESIE'S  UNCLE.] 

ST.  JOHN  HERBERT  says,  somewhere  in  the 
course  of  these  letters,  that  he  was  not  con- 
cerned with  "  politics  "  in  editing  them.  This, 
in  our  political  era,  may  be  regarded  as  a  bene- 
fit. Herbert  was  not  a  politician  properly,  be- 
yond, let  us  hope,  a  general  sense  of  justice, 
since  his  business  was  the  Law.  Further,  a 
Frenchman  being  his  collaborator,  if  he  really 
had  entered  seriously  upon  the  disputations  of 
our  times,  they  would  have  had  some  undigni- 
fied clashes.  Even  as  it  was,  I  am  told  the  ink 
flew  at  moments,  —  however  they  agreed  about 
Jamesie. 

Herbert  was  modest,  at  least,  as  master  of  the 
ceremonies.  He  called  the  contents  of  his  vol- 
ume a  "shuffle,"  —  du  Frettay  called  them  a 
"salad," — both  terms  a  little  unfair.  Because 
in  shuffling  and  salad-making  the  intention  (I 
believe)  is  to  disorganise;  and  Herbert,  in 


viii  PREFACE 

stringing  our  letters,  certainly  had  some  organic 
idea.  That  I  grant  him.  What  it  was  I  leave 
to  clever  people  of  his  own  sort  who  read  him. 
So  far  as  I  can  see,  everything  that  was  really 
serious  that  passed  between  us,  especially  my 
own  more  thoughtful  outpourings,  Herbert  left 
out.  He  put  in  a  few  thoughtful  ones  of  his 
own,  goes  without  saying.  I  wonder  at  times 
they  were  not  all  his:  except  that  du  Frettay 
had  thoughts  he  needed  to  give  to  the  world  as 
well. 

He  divided  his  material  into  three  parts,  of 
which  one  pre-war,  and  which  he  named  ac- 
cording to  his  private  theory.  As  for  character 
he  had  not  (he  told  us  kindly)  much  of  a  com- 
pany ;  he  had  to  take  what  he  had  and  make  the 
best  of  it.  At  least  he  had  three  or  four  nations, 
five  or  six  classes,  two  sexes,  and  young  and  old. 
And  he  had  Jamesie. 

The  worst  documentary  drawback  was  (he 
mentioned  suddenly)  that  people  lie  so,  in  let- 
ters; and  the  more  moving  the  times  they  live 
in,  the  more  they  lie.  He  was  proceeding  to 
illustrate,  from  the  material  under  his  hand, 
when  du  Frettay  rather  hastily  interrupted  him. 
He  said  the  same  people  lied  much  more  in  life 


PREFACE  ix 

and  literature:  that  is  to  say,  they  arranged 
things.  He  implied  that  it  was  no  more  than 
tolerable  good  manners,  in  society,  to  arrange 
things,  and  that  in  one's  correspondence,  it  was 
purely  a  question  of  style.  Then  he  said,  that 
at  least  your  letter-writer  betrayed  his  own  na- 
ture in  lying,  the  form  of  his  lying,  which  your 
newspaper-correspondent  never  did.  There 
Herbert  agreed  with  him,  and  they  shook  hands 
upon  it;  and  both  made  an  exception  for  Jim, 
the  soul  of  truth  and  style  as  well:  and  they 
shook  hands  again. 

Herbert  declared  he  was  not  going  to  prefix 
a  portrait  of  Jamesie,  though  he  had  plenty  of 
sketches,  Jamesie's  mother  being  a  painter;  then 
he  proceeded  to  start  one  in  pen  and  ink. 
Jamesie  was  a  Suir,  he  began,  but  handsome; 
though  handsome,  Herbert  proceeded,  he  made 
the  mistake  of  not  resembling  his  mother  the 
least.  At  this  point  du  Frettay  observed  that 
Jamesie's  mother  had  made  him,  mind  and 
body:  that  his  type  was  deep,  deep-rooted  in  the 
English  middle-classes,  and  not  in  the  Irish 
upper  at  all :  and  that  Herbert  had  far  better 
let  him  have  the  whole  editing  of  the  sacre  let- 
ters, since  du  Frettay  appreciated  the  English 


x  PREFACE 

malgre  tout.  A  little  disputation  occurred  just 
there,  so  my  nephew's  portrait  never  got  beyond. 

Remained  the  technical  convention,  having 
swept  the  literary  forms  aside.  Lies,  or  state- 
ments under  suspicion,  were  accorded  a  point 
of  interrogation,  as  being  a  help  to  the  reader, 
and  yet  polite.  Letters  by  grooms  and  the  un- 
grown  were  to  be  punctuated:  that  was  quite 
righteous;  as  much  as  that  filthy  handwritings 
(like  Ashwin's  and  Iveagh's  and  Joyce's)  should 
be  given  the  clean  dress  of  print.  Spelling,  in 
the  communications  of  the  Upper  Ten  (such  as 
Shere)  had  to  be  looked  to:  they  allowed  them- 
selves to  supply  meanings,  in  the  form  of  words 
left  out,  to  the  contributions  of  children  under 
five.  Entirely  imaginary  letters,  from  horses 
and  others,  and  purely  commercial  documents, 
like  the  bills  that  followed  Steenie  about,  were 
suppressed  altogether.  Letters  in  foreign  lan- 
guages—  I  should  not  like  to  say  all  that  hap- 
pened about  that. 

As  to  French,  Herbert  owned  himself  an  un- 
practised translator,  but  even  he  could  not  be- 
lieve du  Frettay  would  have  translated  into  his 
native  tongue  more  correctly  than  he.  He  had 
nobody's  word  but  du  Frettay's  own  for  it,  nor 


PREFACE  xi 

had  he  the  time  to  test  that,  in  his  vexed  life 
among  the  Tribunals :  so  they  settled,  to  avoid 
difference,  on  a  system  of  marginal  notes,  and 
then  proceeded  to  disagree  over  each  note  in 
turn.  German,  said  Herbert  suddenly;  he  was 
willing  to  undertake,  unless  du  Frettay  put  in 
a  special  claim  for  it;  which  disturbed  our 
friend's  feelings  so  much  that  he  almost  left  his 
grievance  about  the  French. 

As  to  the  prospects  of  the  "  tendancieux,"  that 
scarecrow  of  our  times,  it  might  almost,  said 
Herbert,  be  made  a  matter  of  excuse,  that 
though  his  company  was  thick  with  warriors, 
none  of  them  wrote  about  the  war.  They  wrote 
about  the  commonest  and  most  domestic  mat- 
ters, at  least  in  the  field,  and  in  hospital  they 
grumbled  about  their  dinners.  Du  Frettay  said 
his  lot  did  that  in  the  field  as  well,  for  reasons 
that  the  Administration  was  going  to  hear  of 
presently:  but  that  must  have  been  a  local  pecu- 
liarity. They  wrote  (I  quote  Herbert)  "  to 
young  children,  old  nurses,  and  little  marraines 
of  whom  they  were  careful.  Sometimes  they 
asked  the  world  behind  the  lines,  shyly  as  it 
were,  whether  things  seemed  to  be  looking  up 
at  all,  and  when  it  was  likely  to  be  over.  Other- 


xii  PREFACE 

wise  they  seemed  for  the  most  part  to  be  en- 
gaged in  a  thing  that  was  horribly  abstract,  a 
cloud  on  the  brain,  more  than  a  human  business. 
They  sought  relief  where  they  had  always 
sought  it,  in  comradeship,  friendliness,  such  art 
as  they  could  manage,  such  natural  beauty  as 
they  could  snatch:  in  argument  and  classical 
reading:  in  echoes  of  innocence  from  a  world 
happily  shut  off  from  them:  in  family  af- 
fection, freshly  consecrated:  in  Love  .  .  .  un- 
censorable?  " 
See  Jamesie. 


CONTENTS 

PART  I 

PAGE 

THE  STRIFE i 

PART  II 
THE  TRUCE 115 

PART  III 
THE  MEETING-GROUND 199 

APPENDIX 343 


PART  I 

THE    STRIFE 


JAMESIE 


THE   STRIFE 


Sophie  Colmar  to  Francis  Blakie. 

DEAR  FRANCOIS, 

i 

I  am  told  you  come  Saturday  fortnight 
with  M.  Herbert.  Is  this  fact?  I  burn  to  be 
sure.  Excuse  more,  as  I  am  brim  with  work 
to  the  Duchesse's  arrival. 

Je  t'embrasse,  mon  coeur, 
SOPHIE. 

Francis  Blakie  to  Sophie  Colmar. 

DEAR  SOPHIE, 

Mr.  Herbert  is  letting  me  come,  since  they 
are  short  of  players  for  the  men's  eleven.  You 
and  me,  I  suppose,  will  be  opposite  sides. 
Don't  cry  if  I  bowl  you,  because  that 's  my  busi- 
ness. And,  I  say,  don't  you  go  boasting  and 
saying  things  imprudent,  as  likely  with  this  in- 
door work  I  have  lost  my  form.  I  Ve  been 
coaching  Mr.  H.  in  odd  times,  but  between  our- 
selves he  is  not  much  good.  Do  you  know  of 


4  JAMESIE 

any  other  gentlemen  playing,  or  is  it  just  the 
scrap  lot  of  farm  and  garden  hands? 

Keep  me  informed  in  case  of  alteration,  won't 
you?  It 's  a  bit  of  all  right  your  mother  does  n't 
disapprove.  I  shan't  change  Mr.  H.  now  till 
I  marry,  so  you  '11  have  me  at  hand.  After  that 
naught  but  death  shall  us  part,  as  the  song  says. 
Has  that  brother  of  the  Duchess's  spoken  to 

you  again? 

Yours  ever, 
F.  B. 

The  Duchess  of  Wickford  to  Lady  Iveagh  Suir. 

DEAR  BESS, 

I  am  ashamed  not  to  have  written  before, 
enclosing  this:  but  you  are  not,  my  dear,  obliged 
to  accept  it.  Tell  me  right  out  if  you  would 
rather  not,  and  I  will  console  Steenie.  I  am  a 
little  afraid  he  may  have  been  boring  you 
lately,  lounging  in  at  all  hours  when  you  want 
to  be  painting:  and  you  are  probably  too  kind 
to  him,  much.  I  ought  to  tell  you  he  is  a  lazy 
boy,  and  my  husband  has  given  him  the  go-by 
in  Ireland.  He  is  figuratively  in  the  corner, 
and  is  only  allowed  to  play  for  us  because  we 
must  have  men.  I  wish  —  I  wish — I  wish  he 


THE    STRIFE  5 

would  take  to  some  sensible  work.  Yet  I  am  so 
little  older,  and  I  can't  be  for  ever  scolding  him, 
or  he  would  tire  of  me,  —  and  I  am  the  last. 

We  are  being  sillier  than  usual  on  Saturday, 
chiefly  for  the  children.  It  is  cricket,  men 
against  women,  the  men  playing  left-hand. 
That  is  the  sort  of  thing,  if  you  came,  I  should 
have  to  offer  you.  Kells  is  hoping  for  Jamesie 
anyhow.  Sophie  tells  me  to  say  she  would  see 
to  your  dress. 

[The  card  enclosed  states  that  the  Duchess  of 
Wickford  was  at  home,  —  cricket  and  dancing, 
—  at  Holmer,  July  nth.  And  it  was  inscribed 
in  her  pleasant  hand,  "  Bess  and  Jamesie," 
simply.] 

The  Duke  to  the  Same  —  a  scrawl. 

I  enclose  what  I  consider  right  for  Kells' 
portrait,  and  get  yourself  a  frock  with  it  and 
bring  it  us,  not  forgetting  Jim. 

The  Marquis  of  Kells  to  Jamesie  Suir. 

DEAR  J., 

Mother  says  your  coming  chucker-up! 
Secrets  and  Nurse  is  in  it.  Bring  your  Paint- 
box. Biscuit  is  ill  and  I  'm  riding  Gypsy  whose 


6  JAMESIE 

a  dull  old  Girl.     Nurse  says  this  is  shockenly 
written.    Larks  on  Saturday. 

Yours  ever, 

KELLS,  KC.B.1 

The  Duke  to  his  brother-in-law,  Stephen 
Crawford. 

.  .  .  This,  Steenie,  is  to  let  you  know.  You 
are  fond,  I  am  aware,  of  your  sister's  hospitality. 
It  is  her  substance  very  largely,  I  don't  deny, 
you  have  been  wasting  out  there,2  and  no  doubt 
you  are  welcome  to  it.  What  she  would  wel- 
come less,  is  your  going  back  on  me.  I  'have 
evidence  you  have  used  me  beyond  unfairly,  as 
a  cloak  for  your  own  misdoings ;  and  you  have 
gone  too  far  now,  I  think,  for  any  new  exten- 
sion I  might  grant  you  to  set  it  right.  I  have 
given  you  chances  enough.  They  dislike  you, 
and  me  by  means  of  you,  and  I,  you  kindly  ob- 
serve, am  to  blame  for  it,  giving  you  too  hard 
a  job.  So  I  would  believe,  if  I  had  not  given 
you  others  simpler,  where  you  had  failed  as 
signally.  As  it  is  I  must  evict  you,  Stephen, 

1  Author's  Note.  —  It  was  Kells'  and  Jamesie's  habit  to  give  them- 
selves titles,  which  they  greatly  preferred  to  their  own.  See  hencefor- 
ward in  this  history. 

*  Ireland. 


THE    STRIFE  7 

and  invite  you  not  to  go  back.  I  have  too  much 
conscience  in  these  times  to  risk  it,  absentee  as 
I  am. 

I  am  told  you  have  played  the  villain  to  Katie 
Rochester,  and  her  brother  is  one  of  those  who 
attacks  me.  I  am  not  making  too  much  of  that, 
knowing  the  ramshackle  lot  they  are,  and  am 
keeping  the  worst  of  your  foolery  from  Janet. 
But  it  is  a  warning,  the  first  big  thing  that  has 
slipped  through  your  fingers,  after  the  many 
lesser  you  have  duffered,  and  I  tell  you,  for 
Janet's  sake,  who  cares  for  you,  pull  up  while 
it  is  time. 

I  am  older  than  you,  and  I  am  the  injured 
party.  You  will  not,  I  hope,  take  offence  at 
this  then,  having  forced  it  upon  me:  indeed, 
I  think  you  must  be  expecting  it,  you  come  so 
little  near  us.  Janet  and  I  want  you  for  her 
party  as  we  have  mentioned,  and  I  trust  you 
will  pick  up  any  decent  cricketing  hands  you 
see.  It  is  left  hands  we  want  peculiarly.  The 
girls  are  in  their  strength,  and  they  have  got 
that  kid  Madeleine  Pennant,  who  is  tremen- 
dous. I  am  trying  for  an  old  Blue  for  Captain, 
Shere  is  a  safe  draw  for  a  good  reason,1  and 

1  See  later. 


8  JAMESIE 

there  is  a  bare  chance  my  own  brother  may  be 
back  in  time.  I  hope  you  have  pinned  Herbert. 
By  the  way,  has  he  not  a  man  belonging  to  him 
who  is  something  of  a  bat?  .  .  . 

Canon  Oxborough,  to  the  Duke. 

MY  DEAR  BOY, 

To  be  sure  I  will  captain  your  eleven  if 
you  really  require  me,  but  have  you  ascertained 
there  are  none  of  the  young  fellows  more  fit? 
Remember  my  age,  my  emaciated  limbs  and 
failing  powers.  Well,  I  will  do  my  best,  and 
let  the  monstrous  regiment  opposed  to  us  look 
out!  At  worst  I  might  have  to  get  one  of  you 
boys  to  run  for  me.  I  will  step  over  if  I  have 
time  on  Sunday  and  look  at  the  pitch.  Non- 
sense about  not  playing,  I  cannot  have  you 
shirking  it.  Committees  indeed!  We  have  all 
our  bit  of  sacrifice  to  make  in  the  public  cause. 
Salute  my  fellow  captain  from  me  if  you  are 
writing.  I  have  heard  of  her  triumphs,  tell 
her,  and  count  her  worthy  of  my  steel.  Love 

to  Janet. 

Your  affectionate  uncle, 

LIONEL  OXBOROUGH. 


THE    STRIFE  9 

Miss  Madeleine  Pennant,  Buckdean  School, 
to  her  sister  Joyce  in  London. 

All  right,  only  for  goodness  sake  do  the  writ- 
ing. Dukes  and  duchesses  are  a  trifle  off  my 
line.  I  Ve  got  the  clothes  I  want,  thank  you, 
and  I  hope  I  know  how  to  behave  to  a  foreign 
eleven,  men  or  otherwise.  You  seem  to  forget 
I  have  done  it  before.  Of  course  a  lot  of  men 
and  girls  ragging  is  hardly  worth  going  over 
for,  but  better  not  let  the  duke  know  that.  Do 
any  of  you,  by  any  chance,  know  the  rules?  I 
like  the  duchess,  what  I  have  seen  of  her,  and 
of  course  she  is  jolly  kind  to  ask  me  for  the 
dance. 

Sorry  you  are  off  with  Steenie,  that  is  if  you 
are.  I  suppose  it  would  be  cheek  to  suggest  at 
this  stage  you  might  do  better,  but  perhaps  I 
am  prejudiced.  Besides,  neither  you  nor  Linda 
tell  me  much,  do  you, — so  I  can  only  make 
shots  at  the  right  thing  to  say.  Mention  to  the 
duke  or  whichever  it  is  that  I  am  obliged  to 
Canon  Oxborough.  Anyhow  he  knows  some- 
thing of  the  game. 

Yours, 

M.  M.  P. 


io  JAMESIE 

Lady  Iveagh  to  the  Duchess. 

DEAR  JANET, 

Your  letter  is  like  you,  kind.  No,  I  would 
rather  not  come  on  Saturday.  It  is  not  the 
dress,  though  thank  him  and  Sophie  for  think- 
ing of  it:  it  is  for  every  reason  I  think  I  am 
better  at  home. 

I  am  sorry  about  your  brother.  I  did  have 
to  tell  him  not  to  come  quite  so  often,  that  is  the 
fact.  So  long  as  Kells  was  sitting  to  me,  he 
came  with  Kells,  that  was  simple.  But  Kells 
is  no  more,  and  still  your  brother  continues,  — 
I  own  it  annoyed  me,  in  front  of  Jamesie.  I 
did  not  imagine  he  was  serious,  but  I  think  chil- 
dren, in  those  ways,  should  be  treated  with  the 
greatest  respect.  And  Jamesie  notices. 

I  heard  from  our  Paris  friends  yesterday,  and 
there  they  seem  to  be  taking  this  Sarajevo  busi- 
ness seriously.    I  hope  it  does  not  mean  another 
blaze-up  in  the  Balkans.    Don't  spoil  Jamesie. 
Your  affectionate, 

ELIZABETH  Sum. 


THE    STRIFE  n 

Jamesie  to  St.  John  Herbert. 

Mother  is  n't  going  but  I  'am.  She  says  I 
must  tell  you  Father  coming  she  has  no  Time. 
I  told  Mother  it  would  have  been  difacult  if 
she  had  Played,  because  we  are  backing  the 
other  side.  Aunt  Janet  says  Kells  is  playing 
possubly.  Is  Francis? 

JAMESIE. 

Kells  to  Canon  Oxborough. 

DR.  UNCLE  LIONEL, 

Heres  Mothers  List.  Shes  made  up  Father 
isnt  and  says  he  wont  be.  We  cant  find  any  left- 
handed  Men.  Uncle  Iveagh  is  but  hes  coming 
this  time  for  my  Poney.  Theyve  had  two  vets 
to  him  1  and  Tim  is  giving  up  hope.  Aileen 
wanted  me  to  ask,  when  Horses  die,  what  hap- 
pens? But  I  said  not  being  Xtians  you  wouldnt 
know. 

Your  aft.  nephew, 
KELLS. 

1  The  poney. 


12  JAMESIE 

Follows  the  Ladies'  List,  we  found  so 
alarming. 

Janet. 

/Joyce  Pennant. 
-[  Laura  Pennant. 
I  Madeleine  Pennant. 

Linda  Monk  (Pennant). 
(Trix  Adler. 
1  Jeannette  Adler. 

Sophie  (my  maid). 

Miss  Kitchin  (his  typist). 

Lettice  (nursery-maid). 

Sybil  (farm). 

St.  John  Herbert  to  Canon  Oxborough. 

Right-o,  Captain,  though  I  am  afraid  you 
won't  find  me  good  for  much.  You  ask  about 
the  others.  I  should  judge  it  is  a  poor  look-out. 
Crawford  is  capital  on  his  day,  but  the  Wick- 
ford  family  have  been  snubbing  him,  the  world 
and  the  women  are  agin  him,  so  chances  are  he 
may  refuse  to  play  up.  If  I  may  be  so  imper- 
tinent, I  warn  you  against  pastoral  exhortation 
in  that  quarter.  The  Duke  you  know.  The 
Irish  groom  is  a  little  devil  in  the  field,  and  a 
monkey  to  run,  but  if  the  horse  is  ill,  you  won't 


THE    STRIFE  13 

have  him.  Iveagh  might  help,  granted  the  boat 
gets  in,  but  you  bet  it  won't.  Besides  he  has 
been  enjoying  fever,  his  wife  tells  me,  so  he  may 
be  off  it  as  much  as  Crawford.  The  coachman 
is  rotten.  The  valet  is  rank.  My  own  fellow, 
on  the  other  hand,  is  rather  a  mighty  man,  and 
inclined  to  give  the  young  ladies  a  lesson.  His 
inamorata  will  be  looking  at  him,  —  need  I  say 
more?  And  which  of  the  rest  of  us,  Captain, 
will  be  in  that  happy  position?  Sometimes  I 
think  we  are  rather  a  seedy  lot.  .  .  . 

Joyce  Pennant  to  Stephen  Crawford. 

You  won't  get  that  other  girl,  so  it  is  no  good. 
She  has  put  on  the  Puritan,  Janet  says,  and  is 
staying  at  home.  She  smells  a  rat,  very  natural, 
and  I  hear  you  have  lost  your  appointment  as 
doer  to  the  Duke.  You  are  really  off  your  luck, 
aren't  you?  And  here's  Mad  patronising  you 
in  her  letter,  so  she  won't  do.  And  I  hear  on 
good  authority  the  Frenchwoman  is  engaged. 
And  I  shall  drown  myself,  naturally,  when  I 
have  just  had  a  taste  of  the  Duke's  champagne. 
There  's  a  nice  little  froggy  pond  I  know  in  the 
park  at  Holmer.  Will  you  come  along  down 
there  with  me  on  Saturday  night? 


i4  JAMESIE 

Sophie  to  the  Same. 

Je  vous  rends  votre  mot,  Monsieur,  intact. 
Je  suis  fiangee  depuis  peu,  engaged,  a  celui  que 
j'aime,  homme  de  caractere  et  de  courage, 
n'etant  pourtant  pas  gentleman  officier  de 
cavalerie. 

S.   COLMAR. 

The  Dowager  Duchess  of  Wickford  to 
Canon  Oxborough. 

Will  you  tell  me  exactly  what  is  happening 
at  Holmer  on  Saturday?  I  understand  you  are 
concerned.  Elizabeth  mentioned  she  had  been 
asked,  and  blushed  a  good  deal  about  it.  My 
son  has  not  given  me  the  chance  of  refusing. 
Yet  I  can  hardly  conceive  you  would  be  at- 
tached to  anything  outre,  though  Janet  lets  her- 
self be  led  away  by  the  American  set  sometimes. 
I  heard  Miss  Adler  mentioned  by  the  children 
as  attending  this  function.  ...  If  you  can  open 
my  eyes  to  the  ins  and  outs  of  this  business  of 
young  Crawford,  I  should  be  thankful,  too.  I 
can  never  catch  Wickford  for  five  minutes 
nowadays. 

Your  affectionate  sister, 

GERTRUDE  W. 


THE    STRIFE  15 

The  Duke  to  the  Dowager  Duchess. 

Excuse  my  being  reduced  to  ink,  Mother, 
since  I  cannot  make  a  minute  to  call,  and  I 
know  telephones  trouble  you.  We  have,  not 
asked  you  for  Saturday,  though  you  know  a 
room  is  open  to  you  if  you  cared.  It  is  the  birth- 
day rag  in  its  extremest,  chiefly  to  amuse  the 
kids.  It  is  the  Pennants  and  the  Adlers,  plus 
Shere  and  Steenie,  with  the  Canon  and  a  girl  of 
sixteen  to  captain  us,  our  elegant  amusement 
being  to  watch  the  men  play  left-handed  against 
the  women  right.  What  is  more  be  licked, 
Mother,  so  you  had  better  not  come.  It  could 
hardly  amuse  you,  and  with  the  sort  they  are 
there  is  no  avoiding  a  noise.  .  .  . 

The  Same  to  St.  John  Herbert. 

It  is  kind  of  you,  Herbert,  to  make  the  effort, 
like  you,  and  I  hope  it  will  not  be  bad  for  your 
work.  It  is  the  merest  rag,  Jane  and  I  are 
ashamed  of  it.  Times  are  bad,  and  between 
ourselves,  we  have  been  put  to  it  to  keep  the 
thing  up  at  all.  Where  I  ought  to  be  is  Ireland, 
but  I  cannot  get  off,  and  she  is  inclined  to  be 
nervous.  Young  Crawford  amused  himself  ex- 
clusively beyond  in  drawing  discredit  on  me, 


16  JAMESIE 

and  making  himself  anathema  in  the  district. 
I  have  had  some  very  queer  letters,  and  I  have 
not  shown  Janet  the  choicest  ones.  It  is  hard 
for  her,  her  brother  being  in  fault,  not  but  what 
she  is  perfectly  with  me  in  dismissing  him.  That 
is  the  one  thing,  in  the  whole  tangle,  we  are  sure 
about,  though  what  to  do  with  the  lad  beats  me. 
I  think  he  is  rotten,  really,  yet  I  dare  not  tell 
Jane.  .  .  .  Oh,  the  load  it  would  be  off  me  if  I 
could  send  my  brother  across,  and  for  good.  I 
would  like  him  to  take  it  off  me  for  good,  Her- 
bert. Tell  nobody  I  said  this,  it  is  weakminded. 
But  it  needs  a  character  such  as  his,  slick  and 
equal,  easy-looking  and  untiring  beneath,  —  oh 
untiring,  —  new  every  morning,  as  the  hymn 
says.  Courage,  it  all  comes  to  that.  A  kind  of 
bread-and-butter  courage,  facing  the  music, 
which  Steenie  has  not.  .  .  . 

St.  John  Herbert  to  Lady  Iveagh  Suir. 

A  very  nice  letter  from  our  duke,  accepting 
me.  I  am  going  to  play  cricket  there,  absurdly, 
knowing  that  I  can't.  You  have  refused  to  do 
the  same,  says  Jamesie.  It  is  a  lack  of  courage, 
I  fear,  Bess,  —  bread-and-butter  courage,  — 
which  I  possess.  .  .  . 


THE    STRIFE  17 

Lady  Iveagh,  to  M.  du  Frettay,  Paris. 

Do  tell  me  what  you  think  about  courage, 
something  has  set  me  considering.  Do  you 
admit  several  sorts,  or  is  that  nonsense?  Is  there 
a  French  courage  and  an  English  courage?  Is 
there  a  common  people's  and  a  superior  people's, 
an  every-day  and  a  Sunday  kind?  Is  there  a 
woman's  and  a  man's? 

Lord  Iveagh  to  Lady  Ail e en  Suir  (aged  4  )  on 

a  highly-coloured  picture  postcard  from 

Queenstoivn. 

Here  are  all  the  horses  you  want.  Let  your 
father  know  I  may  turn  up  a  bit  late,  coming 
this  way,  say  for  the  second  innings.  Tim  and  I 
can  change. 

The  Duke  to  his  wife,  in  haste. 

.  .  .  And  now  he  informs  me  he  is  getting  off 
in  Ireland.  Getting  off!  And  he  tells  the  nur- 
sery first.  No,  I  am  wrong,  he  tells  the  stable 
first,  swearing  at  Tim  about  the  poney.  When 
I  had  made  time  to  go  to  the  port,  and  we  had 
reckoned  him  into  the  eleven,  and  made  sure  of 
him  for  the  girls,  and  Bess  left  hanging  equally! 


i8  JAMESIE 

I  have  said  nothing,  I  will  swear,  this  time,  to 
distract  him  from  coming  straight  home,  for 
orders.  I  said  for  orders,  Jane.  Little  he  re- 
gards me!  He  will  know  the  whole  blessed 
boiling,  beyond,  before  I  can  be  level  with  him, 
and  Katie  will  be  weeping  on  his  shoulder,  since 
that  is  her  habit  with  the  men  she  likes,  and  her 
relations  striving  who  can  lie  the  sweetest  on 
the  subject  of  Steenie's  crimes.  .  .  .  Janet,  if 
those  two  do  not  fight  this  time,  my  luck  is  bet- 
ter than  I  ever  thought  it,  and  here  if  you  please 
is  Bess  between  them  too!  That  is  two  girls, 
three,  if  Iveagh  likes  to  pick  up  the  cudgels  for 
Joyce,  and  I  am  much  surprised  if  he  lets  any 
attractive-looking  weapon  lie  about  when  he  has 
seen  that  work  beyond.  He  will  be  sky-high 
simply,  he  who  hates  incompetence,  and  who 
will  drop  in  this  manner  into  a  situation  which 
is  the  devil's  own.  My  great  fear  is,  that  finding 
everything  gone  to  glory,  the  building  left,  and 
half  the  men  swearing  to  shoot  me,1  and  the 
girls  out  on  the  roads,  and  the  coastmen  sleeping 
on  their  revolvers,  and  ten  men's  work  in  the 
office  to  do,  he  will  wait  and  see  it  through,  and 
so  score  off  the  pack  of  us.  It  would  be  like  him. 

1  The  duke  exaggerates. 


THE    STRIFE  19 

Spalpeen!  And  him  with  the  fever  on  him 
still,  and  that  climate  the  worst  he  could  choose, 
and  a  woman  like  his  waiting  for  him  patiently. 
He  does  not  deserve  to  own  her,  Stephen  is  right. 
I  am  vexed  with  him  sincerely.  Oh,  the  bless- 
ing to  know  he  is  at  last  in  reach  of  a  penny 
stamp!  .  .  . 

The  Duchess  to  Lady  Iveagh. 

My  dear,  I  am  so  glad  about  your  man,  and 
ashamed,  —  my  fault.  Or  rather,  my  family's. 
But  I  am  perfectly  certain  he  will  turn  up,  and 
so  will  Conor  be  thinking  it  over,  not  because  of 
the  cricket,  nor  of  course  because  of  you  and 
Jamesie,  but  because  of  the  horse.  Aileen  was 
crying  all  the  morning,  Nurse  says,  about  Bis- 
cuit, whereas  Kells,  whose  fault  it  really  is, 
seems  as  indifferent  as  you  please.  He  told 
Nurse  his  uncle  was  coming  back  to  see  about 
it,  —  about  his  poney,  the  pretension  of  the 
child.  Really  it  is  getting  serious.  If  I  believed 
he  said  those  things  for  the  sake  of  talking,  as 
Conor  does  occasionally,  —  but  he  is  like  my 
family,  prosaic  and  forthright.  He  says  what 
he  means  as  exactly  as  ticking  shows  a  watch: 
and  it  is  not  always  much  more  interesting,  Bess, 


20  JAMESIE 

though  of  course  it  shows  Kells.  I  think  before 
this  big  treat  I  shall  talk  to  him  a  little,  and 
mention  how  much  pleasanter  Jamesie's  way  of 
taking  things  is,  not  assuming  everything  is  laid 
out  for  his  advantage.  Though  of  course  this 
party  largely  was,  for  if  it  had  not  been  for  dis- 
appointing them,  the  extraordinary  contretemps, 
and  extra  worry  it  has  been  for  Conor,  would 
have  made  me  give  it  up.  It  is  only  our  chil- 
dren who  regard  our  birthdays,  is  it?  And  I 
feel  something  less  than  inspired  for  the  mo- 
ment, I  own.  .  .  . 

Kells  to  the  Duke. 

DEAR  FATHER, 

Biscuit  is  if  anithing  worse,  and  won't  eat, 
which  is  the  begining  of  the  end.  I  am  not  to 
see  him  till  the  last.  Masters  says  Uncle  Iveagh 
will  come  Tim's  hair. 

The  Duke  to  Kells. 

It 's  your  own  hair  should  have  the  combing, 
and  will,  when  your  uncle  hears  the  truth. 
Walking  'him  in  the  river  heated,  and  forgetting 
his  blanket  with  it,  oh,  we  found  out.  A  nice 
horse  like  that,  better-bred  than  yourself  is, 


THE    STRIFE  21 

where  is  the  good  of  him  and  me  taking  the 
trouble  we  did?  Aileen  shall  have  the  horses 
till  you  mend  your  ways.  She  '11  be  a  better 
rider  than  you  are  anyhow.  Now  you  talk  small 
for  a  bit. 

Your  father, 
W. 

Jamesie  to  the  Same. 

N.B.  Private.  Important.  Mother  says  the 
nicest  for  the  Programme  would  be  Aunt  Janet's 
Arms,  not  ours,  done  at  the  top,  with  a  very  little 
gold,  (i)  Ours  are  so  dull.  (2)  Peoples  birth- 
days their  own.  (3)  Hard  to  paint  antlers. 
N.B.  Aileen  can  do  the  goldening,  if  Nurse 
likes.  (Mother.)  But  perhaps  I  had  better 
this  time,  the  thing  been  Public.  (J.  C.  S.) 
She  can  watch  you  Print.  Oh  dear,  I  'm  long- 
ing to  start!!  Such  lots  to  arrange.  Grand- 
mother came  for  ages  this  morning.  She  said 
Father  was  tiresome,  which  Mother  didnt 
think. 

Yours  ever, 

J.  C.  SuiR,  F.L.S.,  etc. 


22  JAMESIE 

Pelham  (valet}  to  Francis.    Extracts  from  two 
letters 

DEAR  BLAKIE, 

I  enclose  Tim's  reply  to  Mr.  Herbert, 
which  might  have  been  cleaner,  but  he  would 
write  himself.  He  is  bound  to  boast,  being  on 
that  tack,  though  really  in  the  cricketing  line  he 
is  nothing  to  you.  He  is  at  present  much  set  up 
having  a  letter  from  his  lordship,  and  that  out 
of  Ireland,  where  his  lordship  is,  though  the 
tone  of  it  is  hardly  flattering,  — my  word!  No 
one  but  Tim  would  have  read  it  aloud.  His 
lordship  's  in  a  way,  no  wonder,  the  way  they 
use  him.  The  Duchess  wants  him  for  her  cricket 
naturally.  The  Duke  wants  him  for  Miss  Pen- 
nants, says  so  openly,  —  you  would  have  died 
hearing  him  to  his  mother  in  the  hall.  In  the 
stable  he  is  wanted  too,  and  I  ask  you,  has  his 
wife  no  word?  But  that  is  always  the  way,  the 
people  who  can  turn  a  hand,  in  this  life,  are 
more  in  demand  than  the  clever  ones.  Simi- 
larly, if  I  was  to  ask  you,  private,  which  was  the 
more  serviceable  to  his  Grace's  mother,  Lady  I. 
or  her  Grace's  maid,  I  wonder  what  you  would 
answer  me.  I  think  I  know  what  Mr.  Herbert 
would,  I  seen  him  get  so  vexed  about  it.  ... 


THE    STRIFE  23 

Your  saying  the  ladies  did  the  courting  nowa- 
days made  us  roar,  and  Green  is  with  you, 
though  in  the  position  I  hold  I  have  naturally 
nothing  to  say.  Nor  Tim,  —  he's  never  been 
third  in  a  light  dog-cart,  when  Mr.  Crawford 
drove  Miss  Joyce.  Nor  have  I  noticed  Miss 
Kitchin's  manners  to  the  same  gent  when  she 
cannot  for  her  life  read  something  in  his  Irish 
notes.  As  if  he  would  look  at  her.  Sophie  I 
believe  has  snubbed  him,  and  perfectly  right. 
By  the  way,  I  am  also  to  convey  congratulations 
from  Sir  George's  man  Parke,  who  was  staying 
here  recently.  I  was  to  say  from  Parke  Sophie 
has  the  real  Paris  style  lots  of  ladies  try  for,  and 
try  in  vain.  Parke  has  travelled  a  bit,  and  knows 
women,  so  I  offer  his  remark  at  length  as  worth 
while.  Lady  I.  is  his  choice  amongst  our  par- 
ticular, as  she  seems  to  be  yours.  I  tried  to  get 
Sophie's  views  on  this,  but  she  dodged,  being 
French.  She  puts  Lady  I.  in  one  box  with  the 
Duchess,  which  is  far  from  my  own  feeling, 
very  far.  Though  do  not  imagine  I  have  a  word 
against  her  Grace,  it  is  judging  them  by  their 
sex,  as  a  man  must  at  times.  Lady  I.'s  friend- 
ship with  Mr.  H.  she  finds  odd,  her  husband 
being  away  from  her,  while  her  terms  with  her 


24  JAMESIE 

brother-in-law  are  what  Sophie  considers  cor- 
rect. The  way  that  girl  criticises  and  cuts  up, 
dragging  the  Duke  into  it.  But  we  must  re- 
member, as  Parke  said  very  sensible  when 
Sophie  had  left,  that  it  is  their  boast  to  equalise 
everything,  good  and  bad,  in  France.  .  .  . 

Tim  Geoghan  (groom]  to  St.  John  Herbert. 

MR.  HERBERT, 

Id  play  and  willing  sir  its  but  the  matter  of 
the  horse  to  hinder  me.  It  is  a  good  horse  this 
of  Lord  Kells  and  a  delucate  and  it  is  a  chanst  if 
he  slips  through  our  fingers  before  Ld.  Iveagh 
comes  this  last  as  much  as  my  life  is  worth  and 
so  he  explained  to  me  in  his  personal  hand. 

Coming  to  comparasons,  if  it  was  running 
only  we  are  on  a  level,  but  if  it  is  bating  his  left 
hand  gives  it  him  somewhat,  but  if  it  is  dodging 
and  dubling  Id  easy  take  the  lead.  Wrestling  I 
can  lay  his  lordship  down  always  could,  and  the 
Duke  also,  and  him  weak  with  the  fever  this 
time  would  about  compleat  his  case.  Beyond 
this  it  is  a  chanst  but  the  ladies  playing  would 
prefer  his  lordship  this  match  being  the  Duch- 
esses which  is  in  the  conversing  style. 

Respectfully  yours  sir, 

T.  GEOGHAN. 


THE   STRIFE  25 

Francis  to  Pelham. 

Thanks  for  congrats.  Let  it  be  clearly  under- 
stood I  will  not  have  Sophie  on  Saturday  hang- 
ing about  near  Where  that  fellow  is  when  I  am 
otherwise  engaged.  When  not  wanted  among 
the  ladies  she  can  easily  retire  or  talk  to  the  chil- 
dren or  what  she  wants.  I  may  be  in  for  some 
time,  more  especially  if  I  and  the  Canon  get 
together.  He  played  for  Oxford  in  the  eighties, 
Mr.  Herbert  said,  and  is  still  a  fine  old  speci- 
men. No  more  I  cannot  have  her  say  a  word 
affecting  Mr.  Herbert  or  what  he  may  choose 
to  do  in  the  way  of  friendships  ladies  or  else. 
But  about  this  being  a  particular  matter  I  will 
speak  to  her.  It  is  only  in  view  of  your  own 
goodness  to  her  in  a  nasty  affair1  I  venture  to 
ask  you,  as  it  were,  to  lead  the  way.  Experience 
is  what  S.  is  lacking  though  she  thinks  'herself 
so  up  to  date.  This  between  you  and  me.  Mr. 
Herbert  is  Mr.  Herbert,  he  is  friends  with  all 
the  world.  It  is  just  his  habit  to  be  so,  and  even 
French  I  should  think  would  follow  it,  specially 
seeing  how  kind  and  particular  he  was  to  her, 
that  day  we  all  had  at  Cowes. 

1  Stecnie? 


26  JAMESIE 

Iveagh  to  Herbert. 

Thanks  for  Congrats.  I  am  not  sorry  for  a 
while  to  be  done  with  the  sea.  Let  it  be  clearly 
understood  I  will  not  have  Bess  to  the  dancing, 
or  anywhere  else  that  man  would  touch  her  and 
myself  not  there.  I  have  heard  a  little  truth  of 
Crawford  since  I  landed.  Tell  her  I  will  come 
to  her  when  I  have  time,  it  depends  on  the  little 
horse,  and  Janet.  No,  do  not  tell  her  this,  I  am 
writing  and  will  arrange  it. 

I  shall  have  work  with  that  girl,1  to  get  the 
truth  to  her,  and  I  have  the  deuce's  own  inclina- 
tion this  minute  to  write.  Then  you  or  he  could 
dish  it  up  for  her.  I  might  have  forgotten  a 
little  how  to  talk  to  women,  though  to  be  sure 
that  one  is  straight.  She  shall  have  what  she 
asks  and  when  she  asks  it,  but  I  had  rather  any- 
one else  was  the  mes'senger.  A  man  who  can't 
work  and  can't  play  had  better  be  dead,  but  you 
would  not  tell  his  sister  that.  I  am  sorry  for  the 
girl  he  is  engaged  to.2 

As  for  the  match,  I  may  or  may  not  be  play- 
ing, but  if  I  am  not,  tell  Oxborough  Tim  will. 
Even  if  those  asses  don't  kill  the  animal  before 

1  His  sister-in-law.  *  Joyce. 


THE    STRIFE  27 

I  get  to  it,  there  is  no  point  in  two  of  us  stopping 
out.  You  will  kindly  point  out  to  my  brother 
that  in  this  way  he  is  still  one  to  the  good  by  my 
coming,  and  that  not  improbably  a  better  than 
myself.  He  was  always  shaky  on  arithmetic. 

He  may  even  be  two  to  the  good,  since  if  I 
was  playing,  I  would  feel  driven  to  whack 
the  ball,  on  general  principles,  at  Stephen's 
head.  .  .  . 

The  Same  to  his  brother,  on  a  postcard. 

What  on  earth  has  come  over  Joyce  that  she 
asks  me  for  four  dances?  I  'have  wired  I  am 
agreeable,  but  would  like  to  be  warned  of  the 
game. 

[The  Duke's  answer  to  the  above  had  bet- 
ter be  spaced,  since  correspondence  between 
brothers  is  truthful.  It  may  be  noted  in  exten- 
uation that  they  both  knew  Joyce  from  infancy.] 

She  has  spared  us  the  trouble  of  applying  to 
you.  She  is  at  the  worst  of  a  girl,  outrageous, 
and  what  is  more,  she  means  to  'have  Steenie 
yet.  .  .  .  You  are  in  the  happy  position  of  the 
fresh  man.  There  is  no  more  than  that  in  it, 
until  you  go  against  her.  You  are  new  to  her 


28  JAMESIE 

eyes,  and  may  be  out  of  the  know,  or  with  luck 
she  can  manage  to  blind  you.  She  is  a  pretty 
girl.  She  will  be  worse  to  handle,  this  time, 
than  the  horse  itself  that  laid  you  down  at  Mon- 
tevideo, the  interesting  occasion  when  you  did 
not  get  kicked.  It  is  likely  she  will  make  love 
to  you  steadily  .  .  .  and  Mother  means  to  be 
there.  I  would  as  soon  be  flattered  by  a  Bengal 
tiger,  just  now,  as  Joyce.  You  should  hear  the 
music  alone  she  makes ;  there  is  hunger  in  it,  and 
hatred  for  the  whole  of  us,  as  is  natural.  .  .  . 
Her  sisters  of  course  are  no  good,  and  Janet, 
poor  woman,  a  little  tired  of  his  failures  lying 
over  the  world.  Joyce  may  well  be  the  worst  of 
these,  for  things  with  her  go  deep.  There  is 
more  in  her,  being  an  artistic  girl,  than  in  Laura, 
or  in  Linda  Monk.  Madeleine  I  have  not  met 
at  present,  though  I  give  it  for  what  it  is  worth 
that  Joyce  did  her  utmost  to  prevent  her  stop- 
ping for  the  dance.  My  duchess  out-managed 
her,  having  the  luck  to  know  the  schoolmistress, 
and  Joyce  is  sulky  since.  She  will  now,  you  ob- 
serve, be  overlooked  by  a  little  girl,  to  whom 
she  would  be  a  'model,  naturally.  It  may  be 
unwise,  of  Janet.  A  nice  lot  they  are  ...  Her- 
bert says  these  years  have  been  hard  on  girls.  I 


THE    STRIFE  29 

cannot  see  why  he  limits  it,  seeing  Jane  has  not 
got  her  vote  as  yet.  .  .  .  More  be  token,  if  you 
fall  foul  on  the  way  of  my  other  brother  Craw- 
ford, I  am  not  concerned  with  it.  I  dare  say 
Shere  will  second  you  if  it  comes  to  the  point. 
I  stand  out  in  my  best  style,  taking  care  of  my 
wife,  and  you  are  here  to  relieve  me.  Or  rather 
you  are  not  here,  bad  cess  to  you,  so  instead  of 
saying  the  obvious,  I  am  forced  to  write  in- 
decently. How  is  your  temperature  with  the 
nice  bog-air,  my  little  boy,  and  are  you  ever 
coming  back  to  us?  Jamesie  and  I  are  stuck 
here  in  the  correct  attitude,  but  can't  keep  it  up 
for  ever.  I  am  under  fire,  as  I  write,  of  his 
disturbing  eyes.  .  .  . 

The  Duchess  to  the  Same. 

MY  DEAR  IVEAGH, 

I  am  more  sorry  than  I  can  say,  treating 
you  like  this,  and  I  cannot  even  now  explain  how 
it  happened.  It  is  exactly  as  if  we  had  plotted 
to  prevent  your  seeing  her.  It  is  not  that  we  do 
not  want  her,  or  that  Sophie  and  I  have  not  both 
done  all  we  could.  It  comes  of  our  selfishness, 
which  is  extreme,  and  his  relief,  and  your  being 
so  reliable.  And  her  shyness  of  course  a  little, 


30  JAMESIE 

only  we  could  with  a  decent  effort  have  got  over 
that.  We  must  have  you  at  Holmer,  and  at 
once,  there  is  no  other  way  of  it.  You  must  fag 
for  him  like  old  times,  and  forget  you  are  mar- 
ried, please.  I  feel  quite  humiliated  by  such 
bad  management,  but  still  see  no  way  of  putting 
it  right.  .  .  . 

Suir  to  his  wife,  extract. 

Janet  sounds  tired,  the  way  she  greets  me, 
only  you  may  be  sure  she  never  fails.  He  owns 
himself  she  is  thin,  and  small  wonder,  the  life 
she  has,  and  the  kids,  and  the  conscience  of  the 
woman,  and  that  fellow  to  crown  it.  If  I  were 
you,  I  would  tell  her  she  does  too  much.  From 
me  it  might  come  badly.  .  .  .  You  go  easy,  as 
I  told  you,  and  come  to  the  park  gate  on  Satur- 
day night.  I  will  do  my  best  with  the  girls  and 
so  on  not  to  be  late.  It  is  convenient  your  being 
so  close,  and  for  the  very  night,  and  an  odd  thing 
all  three  of  us  should  have  had  the  same  idea.1 
You  can  see  the  cricket  out  of  the  garden  of  that 
house,  no  point  at  all  in  your  moving  beyond  it. 
Besides  I  may  not  be  playing,  and  Tim  's  not 
much  to  see.  .  .  .  Never  mind  what  Herbert 

1  The  three  includes  Bess's  hostess. 


THE    STRIFE  31 

says,  I  have  heard  enough  of  him,  these  are  my 
own  arrangements.  ...  I  will  send  the  boy  to 
you  if  I  can  dodge  it,  or  you  to  him  with  better 
luck,  but  if  I  cannot  you  will  have  to  wait.  You 
are  used  to  it.  ...  Do  not  believe  his  talk 
against  this  place,  there  is  none  anywhere  in  the 
whole  world  like  it.  This  shivering  I  have  is 
only  a  little  that  was  left  over  from  my  last  bout 
at  the  Canal.  .  .  . 

[The  Canal  I  judge,  with  an  awful  effort,  to 
be  Panama,  probably.  Owing  to  Iveagh's  pesti- 
lential habit  of  never  naming  things  or  persons 
if  he  can  avoid  it,  I  refuse  to  go  bail.  S.  H.] 

The  Duchess  to  her  brother. 

Steenie,  listen:  Is  it  through  laziness,  or  some- 
thing else,  you  are  letting  Joyce  go?  Or  do  you 
mean  to  goad  her  into  breaking  it  off,  —  because 
she  never  will.  Never,  never:  she  is  not  the 
kind  to.  Ask  Bess  if  you  disbelieve  me.  You 
will  have  to  do  it  yourself,  aloud,  —  and  you 
know  how  that  is  regarded  in  our  society, 

JANET. 


32  JAMESIE 

Stephen,  to  the  Duchess. 

DEAR  J., 

Jolly  encouraging  you  are,  but  you  need  n't 
bother.  A  girl  like  that  is  fit  to  look  after  her- 
self. That  is  what  I  object  to,  partly,  that  she 
goes  rather  far  for  me,  knows  too  much,  and  is  a 
bit  above  herself,  all  told,  with  the  attention  she 
has  picked  up  lately.  I  don't  care  for  it,  and 
made  it  clear.  She  will  just  splash  about  now, 
for  the  show's  sake,  and  finish  decently.  For  all 
her  love  of  the  police-courts,1  I  don't  suppose 
she  will  drag  me  in.  Don't  you  go  putting  fresh 
ideas  into  her,  just  when  she  is  settling.  Do  you 
hear?  And  don't  say  a  word  to  your  sister-in- 
law  concerning  us,  or  —  I  '11  cut  loose.  . 

S.  K.  C. 

The  Duchess,  at  once. 

My  dear,  please  believe  me!  You  say  Joyce 
knows  too  much.  She  knows  nothing,  barely 
anything,  of  all  a  man  and  a  gentleman  would 
teach  her,  take  my  word.  Her  knowledge  is  all 
swept  up,  superficiality,  —  what  you  call  swank. 
She  makes  the  best  of  it,  in  self-defence,  they2 
have  to;  but  she  would  sooner  be  defended.  So 

1  W.  S.  P.  U.  *  The  Emancipated. 


THE    STRIFE  33 

would  they  all.  She  is  clever,  of  course,  she  is 
sensitive,  passionate,  too  much  so,  —  she  is  fond 
of  you.  She  will  take  it  hard  if  you  shirk, 
Steenie,  it  would  be  shocking.  Tell  me  you  will 
stand  to  your  engagement. 

j. 

Stephen,  —  a  lazy  scrawl. 

If  she  cuts  up  she  may  be  quiet  a  bit.  Don't 
jaw  anyhow,  J.,  your  husband  does  that. 

Janet,  after  a  pause. 

I  am  waiting  for  an  answer  from  my  brother: 
that  was  a  cad.  If  that  is  so,  I  take  my  stand 
with  her,  as  a  woman  I  am  bound  to.  I  should 
ask  you,  as  she  will  do,  to  send  my  last  letters 
back,  —  but  I  hope  I  am  mistaken.  [Added  in 
a  corner.]  Anyhow,  do  not  punish  her  if  you 
are  tired  of  me. 

j. 

[He  sent  back  the  letters,  and  she  looped  to- 
gether the  little  correspondence.  She  was  four 
years  older  than  Stephen  (says  Herbert)  I  think. 
Neither  I  nor  the  Suirs  ever  doubted  her  deep 
love  for  him.  Four  years  is  enough  to  be  and 
remain  the  elder  sister,  careful  and  weariful, 
throughout  a  life.] 


34  JAMESIE 

Joyce  to  Stephen. 

What  about  that  walk  I  mentioned  by  moon- 
light? Are  you  afraid?  I  should  have  thought 
you  would  have  learnt  at  an  agent's  office  to 
answer  letters.  A  paid  agent,  and  such  a  one,  — 
even  in  Ireland,  where  they  are  always  popu- 
lar, I  understand  you  did  it  in  style.  However, 
I  have  an  answer,  and  pretty  smart,  from  the 
one  at  present  in  occupation.  He  wants  the  first 
four  which  is  fairly  cool,  but  I  have  not  said  no. 
I  suppose  you  know  who  I  allude  to?  You  had 
better  catch  him,  had  n't  you,  before  I  make  him 
tell  me  tales. 

Sophie  to  Francis. 

My  dear,  my  heart,  we  shall  go  out,  it  may  be 
permitted!  Mr.  Pelham  spoke  to  the  Duchesse 
when  I  could  not  attempt.  Never  I  cannot  pro- 
nonce  your  name,  and  with  the  Duchesse  above 
all  I  am  interloquee.  It  is  so  wonderful  to  be  to 
see  you.  I  will  see  you  soon.  And  beneath  the 
skys,  at  night,  all  the  country  to  us.  Do  you 
understand  this,  English  man,  que  je  ne  suis  plus 
moi,  que  je  ne  me  reconnais  pas,  depuis  que 
1'amour  de  toi  m'a  prise.  Why  to  be  quiet  on 
this  subject?  Is  it  not,  for  us  only  two,  the  glory 
of  the  world? 


THE    STRIFE  35 

Stephen  to  Joyce. 

Suir  answers  letters,  does  he?  Answers, — 
can't  be  much  coolness,  then,  in  taking  what  was 
offered  him  first.  You  give  yourself  away,  you 
know,  writing  so  hastily,  though  the  idea  was 
good  enough  at  starting.  I  own  I  don't  care  for 
the  man.  My  reasons  for  it,  though,  being  on 
public  grounds,  would  not  appeal  to  you.  Suir 
is  one  of  the  hole-and-corner  Irish,  skulking, 
slippery,  how  I  bar  the  breed.  Wickford  has  a 
bit  of  it,  but  he  's  worse.  And  they  may  talk  of 
going  back  on  his  brother,  but  you  should  see 
the  way  the  people  regard  him  there.  He  's  just 
the  stuff  of  which  turncoats  are  made.  You 
would  see  if  it  came  to  war.  And  of  course  he 
neglects  his  wife.  I  have  nothing  else  against 
him;  and  what  I  have  is  best  kept  dark.  You 
can  give  me  two  of  his  dances,  if  you  like,  I  dare 
say  it  would  relieve  him.  By  the  way,  do  you 
think  that  little  sister  of  yours  would  give  me 
two? 

Joyce  to  Stephen. 

All  right,  curse  you,  I  cheat  him  and  do  as 
you  tell  me.  He  is  a  much  better  man  than  you. 
Oh,  Stephen,  are  n't  you  coming  round? 


36  JAMESIE 

[The  terrible  passion  of  this  remains  unan- 
swered, Mr.  Crawford  finding  other  interests 
as  the  match  approached.  There  is  reason  to 
think  he  took,  by  degrees,  to  his  sister's  kind 
thought  of  cricket  for  his  amusement.  Simul- 
taneously Suir,  urged  by  the  irresistible,  changed 
his  plans.] 

Aileen,  in  capitals. 
Uncoo  Pies  (come)  Bisciut  cry  dying  Ailie. 

Kelts  to   the  Dowager  Duchess.      The  author 
seems  to  be  practising  a  business  style. 

DR  GRANDMOTHER 

Nurse  says  I  am  to  say  that  as  Mother  isnt 
here  we  '11  be  delighted  to  see  you  on  Thursday 
inst.  next  the  Carriage  to  meet  you  as  per  yours 
but  perhaps  I  wont.  There  is  Cricket  Practise. 
Uncle  I.  comes  with  luck  late  Friday  inst.  next 
so  youll  see  him.  Telgrm  encld. 

Yr.  affec.  gr.  son 
KELLS. 

The  Same  to  Jamesie. 

Oh  Bother  I!  Grandmother  is  coming  too 
soon  and  spoiling  everything.  I  had  such  lots 
to  tell  you  our  Secret  and  Uncle  Steenie  making 


THE    STRIFE  37 

nets  for  Practise  said  I  could  help.  Now  Nurse 
says  Politeness  and  no  Corner  chatring.  Oh 
bother  she  may  bring  chocolate  love  to  Aunt 
Bess. 

Miss    Christina   Johnstone    (Nurse)    to    Lady 
Iveagh  Suir. 

I  do  not  know  how  far  you  wish  Jamesie  to 
join  with  the  gentlemen's  amusements.  It  seems 
young  for  him  to  begin.  Kells  I  cannot  easily 
keep  from  his  uncle,  who  has  set  up  a  place  to 
practise  batting  in  the  far  corner  of  the  poney's 
field.  Mr.  Crawford  has  been  coming  down 
almost  nightly  with  Captain  Shere  and  a  man  I 
am  told  is  a  professional.  He,  at  least,  is  not 
company  the  Duke  would  wish  Kells  to  keep. 
Kells  is  at  the  pains  to  quote  'him,  and  that  quot- 
ing of  his  is  already  a  trick  I  am  trying  to  dis- 
courage. It  may  well  damage  his  originality. 
Besides  it  cannot  do  the  like  of  him  good  prac- 
tising, even  if  it  comes  to  playing,  which  I  doubt. 
The  stable-men  are  down  there  too,  and  they  get 
Tim  away  from  his  duty  much  oftener  than  the 
Duke  would  like.  Not  that  I  wish  tale-bearing 
and  luckily  Lord  Iveagh  will  put  an  end  to  that. 
But  in  the  mean  time  a  word  from  your  Lady- 


38  JAMESIE 

ship  to  Mr.  Crawford  concerning  Jamesie  might 
open  the  way,  if  you  think  it  suitable.  More 
would  hardly  be  required,  as  Kells  would  soon 
follow  in  his  cousin's  wake. 

Yours  faithfully, 
C.  T.  JOHNSTONE. 

[This  document  was  not  answered,  for  obvi- 
ous reasons.  Nurse,  for  all  her  diplomacy,  did 
not  know  the  circumstances.  Lady  Iveagh's 
son  wrote  to  her  on  arrival,  proving  that  a  solu- 
tion had  been  discovered  without  her.  Only 
first  —  ] 

The  Duke  to  Pelham,  marked  "private,"  and 
annotated  by  Herbert  "I  should  think  so!  " 

See  to  Lord  Iveagh,  will  you?  I  can  do  with- 
'out  you  here.  He  will  perhaps  get  in  to  Holmer 
late  to-night  without  touching  town,  since  that 
is  his  new  arrangement.  He  will  be  done  with 
the  racket  beyond,  and  not  well  with  it,  and 
my  mother  is  there.  I  '11  get  down  in  time  to- 
morrow. 

W. 


THE    STRIFE  39 

Jamesie  to  Lady  Iveagh. 

OH  MOTHER, 

Biscuit  is  dying  and  so  I  told  Kells  people 
who  knew  him  do  not  play  cricket  and  games. 
So  Kells  didnt.  Oh  dear  it  is  an  awful  feeling 
and  Uncle  Steenie  laughed  when  I  told  him. 
Mother  they  will  shoot  him  Tim  says  it  is  crulty 
not  and  the  animal  in  that  pain.  And  Biscuit 
cant  talk  Mother.  But  I  said  it  was  Cowardly 
been  angry  and  then  Tim  said  he  hoped  I  'd 
speak  for  him  having  done  his  best.  Oh  dear  so 
I  just  tell  you.1  This  night  there  were  2  gun- 
shots when  I  listened  but  perhaps  it  wasnt. 
Mother  darling  will  you  make  him  a  carving 
for  his  grave  if  he  dies,  long  like  the  Greek 
Chariots?  I  didn't  tell  Aileen  about  the  gun- 
shots. She  is  young,  Nurse  says,  to  understand 
abt  Death. 

She  answered  this. 

I  have  found  a  beautiful  drawing  for  Biscuit, 
but  better  than  the  friezes,  because  the  horse  in 
mine  is  winged.  That  makes  it  an  idea  at  once, 
which  battles  are  not.  If  he  dies,  I  will  model  a 
winged  poney  for  Kells,  a  faithful  promise. 

1  This  is  Jamesie. 


40  JAMESIE 

And  shooting,  darling,  is  a  very  easy  death.  I 
mean  shooting  such  as  Tim  or  Father  would 
take  care  of,  with  such  a  beautiful  horse.  You 
can  absolutely  trust  them,  absolutely.  I  hope 
you  remember  sometimes  that  Kells  is  host,  so 
he  is  the  person  to  propose  things.  And  to  talk 
in  French  to  Sophie. 

[This  shut  Jamesie  up,  for  he  never  by  any 
chance  remembered  that  Kells  ought  to  propose 
things,  taking  the  lead  instinctively  and  invari- 
ably, as  his  father  did.  The  point  of  French, 
however,  came  as  an  interesting  reminder  of  his 
accomplishments,  as  the  next  document  in  the 
dossier  shows.] 

Jamesie  to  Denise  Monteil,  Paris. 

CHERE  DENISE 

Je  vous  ecri's  de  Holmer  ou  mon  oncle 
habites,  et  Sophie  ne  m'aides  pas  beaucoup.  Un 
cheval  est  mourant  malheureusement.  Son  nom 
est  Oatmeal  Biscuit  parce  que  de  son  couleur 
pale-brune.  Nous  1'avons  aple  *  le  premier  jour 
que  Kells  Fa  etc  donne.  Sophie  est  franchise 
elle  va  marier  Francis.  Vous  aimez  le  Mariage 
alors  je  mentione  cela.  C'est  un  secret  particu- 

1  Called,  or  christened. 


THE    STRIFE  41 

Her.  Mother  n'est  pas  ici,  mais  Grandmother 
est  malheureusement.  Elle  n'est  pas  comme 
votre.  Je  vous  envoye  mon  amour,  Mademoi- 
selle, et  a  Madame  du  Frettay  mon  compliment. 
JAMES  CONNELLAN  Sum. 

[This  perfect  specimen  of  the  Irish  gentle- 
man was  instantly  answered  in  equal  style.] 

DEAR  JAMESIE, 

We  have  been  so  glad  with  Grandmaman 
to  receive  your  letter  which  consoles  us.  But 
what,  no  word  of  your  Father?  And  my  uncle 
waits !  How  long  it  seem  since  we  have  to  meet, 
that  is  past  like  a  dream.  Life  opens  before  us. 
My  uncle  aproved  much  your  letter  whose  per- 
fection is  remarquable.  Here  and  there  a  con- 
tresens  but  nothing  enormous.  See,  let  us  be 
friends  ever  between  the  countries,  that  is  a  la 
mode.  There  is  such  surprise  at  the  cours  when 
I  say  I  like  the  Englishmen.  Yet  that  is  exact, 
since  you  and  your  father  are  two,  and  the  two 
are  sympathic.  Your  differences  are  agreable, 
for  except  my  uncle,  the  men  of  my  family!  Let 
us  leave  the  question  and  inscrite  myself. 

Very  tenderly  your  friend, 

DENISE. 


42  JAMESIE 

[The  next  documents  on  record  are  two  tele- 
grams,—  "  Es-tu  la?  "  and  "  I  am  "  from  Lord 
Iveagh  at  Holmer,  the  exchange  of  intimate 
friends.  M.  Gabriel  du  Frettay  then  wrote  (so 
he  declares)  and  voluminously:  but  the  letter 
is  missing,  as  are  many  of  those  to  Suir,  when 
not  from  his  wife.  And  hers  are  hard  to  get  for 
other  reasons.  Such  things  as  he  kept  in  his 
wandering  life,  he  guarded  jealously.  Of  his 
arrival  in  his  old  home  (says  Herbert)  I  have 
the  choice  of  two  accounts.  Tim's  to  his  sister 
is  the  more  "  sympathetic,"  but  Sophie's  is  so  in- 
finitely superior  in  style.  Thus  I  translate  her, 
and  have  some  pleasure  in  consigning  Tim's 
effusion,  filthily  written  and  execrably  spelt,  to 
oblivion.] 

Sophie,  to  her  mother  at  Sevres. 

The  duke's  brother,  so  much  expected,  has 
now  arrived.  An  interesting  horse  being  indis- 
posed upon  his  brother's  premises,  he  goes  there, 
—  not  to  his  wife.  He  passes  the  night  with  the 
animal,  by  preference.  I  am  not  joking,  — 
listen! 

I  come  down  to  the  country,  in  advance,  with 
M.  Pelham :  I  to  occupy  myself  with  the  masque- 
dress,  for  the  ball,  which  is  long  put  away  and 
defraichie  probably,  M.  Pelham  to  occupy  him- 


THE   STRIFE  43 

self  with  milord  Iveagh  (quel  nom)  whose  con- 
dition will  be  the  same,  presumably,  since  he 
has  been  travelling  in  tropical  holes.  In  the 
train  I  lay  before  M.  Pelham  my  idea  of  a  man 
who  leaves  his  wife  and  exquisite  child  to  travel 
after  plants  and  insect  horrors  in  bottles,  and 
obliges  her  to  paint  to  earn  money  for  the  house- 
hold in  -his  absence.  Bon!  Though  well-ad- 
vanced, my  idea  is  not  acceptable.  M.  Pelham 
will  have  none  of  it,  since  his  duke,  it  appears,  is 
devoted  to  this  only  brother.  He  says  milord 
is  very  clever,  very  decided  in  his  judgements, 
that  her  Grace  his  mother,  equally  a  dominating 
spirit,  is  jealous  of  his  influence,  and  en  fin,  that 
he  absents  'himself  in  part,  M.  Pelham  thinks, 
not  to  embroil  the  family.  Bon!  It  is  also  well- 
stated,  of  its  kind.  I  keep  an  open  mind  towards 
each  view,  and  proceed  to  investigation.  Per- 
sonal, hein?  Since  I  have  Francois,  is  it  not  my 
duty  to  study  his  compatriots? 

Milord,  from  the  moment  of  his  arrival, 
makes  himself  remarked.  I  observe  it.  He  has 
an  effect  upon  Tim,  the  groom,  unheard-of,  so 
reducing.  I  am  witness,  in  the  kitchen,  of  Tim's 
efforts  among  us  to  restore  his  amour-propre. 
These  Irish  are  singular  types,  yet  engaging.  I 


44  JAMESIE 

tease  Tim  a  little,  and  he  responds,  —  much. 
There  seems,  despite  the  scenes  they  make  to- 
gether invariably,  to  be  an  understanding  be- 
tween him  and  his  master. 

Next  arrives  Green,  from  the  dining-room. 
There  milord  has  quarrelled  with  M.  Crawford 
across  the  dinner-table,  and  drawn  upon  himself 
the  reproaches  of  his  mother  for  impoliteness, 
and  Green,  endeavouring  to  inform  us  of  it, 
curls  up.1  Here  they  do  not  greatly  care  for 
M.  Crawford.  Next,  milord  retires  to  sulk  in 
the  stable,  announcing  to  the  world  his  intention 
of  watching  till  morning  beside  the  beloved  ani- 
mal, —  sooner  than  set  eyes  on  M.  Crawford 
again.  M.  Crawford,  equally  enchanted  by  the 
arrangement,  repairs  to  the  smoking-room,  and 
immerses  himself  in  the  enjoyment  of  the  duke's 
cigars. 

Good.  I  think  the  situation  of  these  gentle- 
men over,  and  discover  in  it  a  certain  injustice, 
or  inequality.  Is  milord,  for  all  his  caprices, 
not  the  brother  of  the  duke?  Who  then  should 
have  that  tobacco?  I  outline  my  idea  of  equality 
to  M.  Pelham,  who  reproves  me.  He  says  I 
have  too  many  equal  ideas.  Perhaps  I  am  in 

1  Se  tord. 


THE   STRIFE  45 

happy  spirits  because  I  shall  see  Francois,  who 
knows?  Yet  remark,  I  am  divided  by  great 
fear  of  the  stable,  those  horses,  their  stamping 
and  their  eyes.  It  horrifies  me  to  see  the  little 
Aileen  embrace  them.  What,  as  I  say  to  Nurse, 
if  the  animal  should  bite?  However,  I  sing  a 
little  tune  to  disregard  M.  Pelham,  and  I  make 
a  little  turn,  the  duke's  mother  being  in  the 
drawing-room,  in  case,  by  chance,  M.  Crawford 
in  the  fumoir  should  be  asleep.  You  are 
shocked,  ma  petite  mere,  by  these  disclosures? 
Yet  observe :  I  am  "  engaged,"  English,  for  ever. 
Does  that  not  give  one  independence?  Per- 
fectly so. 

In  the  smoking-room,  success!  Behold  M. 
Crawford,  my  acquaintance,  beautifully  elon- 
gated in  sleep :  and  behold,  the  duke's  tobacco- 
box  on  the  table  beside  him.  I  take  that  tobacco- 
box.  Outside  the  door  again,  I  recommence  my 
little  tune.  He  would  have  been  so  pleased,  so 
pleased  to  see  me,  —  had  he  known! 

In  the  stable,  deception,  on  the  contrary!  You 
will  say  it  serves  me  right.  First,  it  is  dirty, 
filthy,  repugnant!  When  my  idea  arrived  to 
me,  I  had  not  thought  of  that.  For  a  week,  do 
you  see,  it  is  a  horse-hospital,  —  and  Tim  not 


46  JAMESIE 

naturally  clean.  Picture  a  gentleman,  a  duke's 
brother,  in  such  environment,  —  no!  Equality, 
say  I,  but,  for  example,  not  with  the  beasts  1 

Milord  Iveagh  differs  with  me.  He  had  no 
attention  for  me,  not  the  slightest,  he  was  at  his 
affairs.  He  had  his  horse,  gazing  at  it.  He 
found  the  large  eyes  of  Biscuit  more  attractive, 

—  bonf    Only  when  I  spoke  he  turned  his  head, 
and  I  saw  how  sulky,  cross  like  a  schoolboy, 
cherishing  the  relics  of  his  wrath  with  Tim. 
He  saw  me,  to  be  sure:  and  also  the  reason  of 
my  disturbing  him,  possibly.    Bah,  je  me  fiche 
of  his  ideas.    I  prefer  my  Frangois,  so  innocent, 
so  English,  so  imperceptive!     He  is  not  hand- 
some at  all,  to  be  the  father  of  M.  Jamesie,  our 
adorable.    He  is  not  large,  to  be  so  dominating, 

—  nor  old,  indeed.    I  saw  he  must  have  married 
very  young.     He  is  like  his  brother,  undistin- 
guished.    Francois  is  ten  times  better-looking. 
M.  Herbert  himself  is,  at  least  in  the  face.1 

He  took  the  tobacco  I  presented  him,  not 
thanking  me.  He  was  smoking  already,  a  cigar 
of  Tim's.  How  vulgar,  when  my  sense  of  equal- 
ity had  discerned  for  him  the  duke's  cigarette- 
box!  However,  he  took  it,  he  did  not  refuse. 

1  Oh,  Sophie. 


THE    STRIFE  47 

Following  that  favour,  he  made  use  of  me,  to 
fetch  something  for  his  requirements:  and  he 
directed  me  sharply  not  to  step  on  one  place  in 
the  straw.  And  there  was  a  gun  there,  loaded, 
—  oh,  the  horror!  He  will  shoot  the  poor 
creature,  choose  his  minute  and  shoot  it,  when 
it  counts  upon  him.  One  saw  its  great  eyes  seek- 
ing milord,  remembering  him,  yes,  loving  him 
marvellously.  And  its  thin  sides  all  wet,  pant- 
ing, shivering,  suffering  of  course.  I  did  not 
know  horses  could  be  ill,  like  humans.  .  .  . 
Now  I  have  come  away  from  them,  I  cannot 
forget.  It  has  unnerved  me,  I  cannot  say:  the 
determination,  the  severity.  I  have  decided  it  is 
not  right  to  capture,  in  that  way,  the  friendship  * 
of  an  animal.  It  is  not  according  to  religion, 
very  probably.  His  wife  could  not  approve  of 
it,  I  am  sure.  Still,  I  am  content  that  I  filched2 
the  tobacco-box,  because  he  has  more  claim  to 
it  than  M.  Crawford,  who  makes  his  sister  cry. 
And  I  am  glad  he  has  appeared  at  last,  for  ce 
petit  chou*  And  also,  though  I  write  to  you 
very  late,  dear  mother,  morning  almost,  I  have 
not  heard  the  gun.  .  .  . 

1  Amitie.  *  Chiper.  *  Jamesie. 


48  JAMESIE 

Iveagh  to  Nurse,  carried  by  Pelham. 
Done  the  trick.    Tell  her.  —  IVEAGH  Sum. 

Aileen,  to  Biscuit,  helped  by  Nurse. 

Jim  and  Ailie  so  glad  you  are  weller  dear 
come  soon. 

A.  E.  S. 

Nurse,  to  her  sister  in  a  London  hospital. 

I  wish  her  Grace  would  let  the  children  alone. 
They  have  been  perfectly  good  since  Jamesie 
got  here  on  Wednesday,  finishing  their  Pro- 
gramme, and  it  is  nice  work  for  both,  painting 
and  printing,  and  the  will  already  there  to  do 
their  best.  I  have  said  nothing  intentionally 
beyond  taking  an  interest  and  a  word  at  times, 
and  Lord  Iveagh  when  he  came  up  as  serious. 
That  arms  Jamesie  painted  is  the  best  he  has 
done.  You  should  see  his  hand,  as  steady,  and 
sitting  straight  to  it,  no  tongue  out,  as  I  tell 
Kells.  Let  alone,  they  teach  one  another,  which 
is  the  safest  way  of  teaching  there  is,  as  it  comes 
natural.  .  .  .  But  do  you  suppose  her  Grace  can 
find  a  word  to  say  for  it?  Titles  and  nonsense 
at  their  age,  Kells  was  half  crying  when  he  came 


THE    STRIFE  49 

upstairs.  I  told  him  on  my  own  his  mother 
would  like  it  better  as  he  made  it  first.  So  she 
would,  poor  little  things,  with  the  pains  they 
took,  and  the  trouble  about  the  poney  already 
they  have  had.  .  .  .  Lord  Iveagh  has  saved  that 
poney's  life,  both  vets  said  must  be  shot  yester- 
day. Sitting  up  with  it,  Masters  said,  foment- 
ing and  feeding  it  like  an  infant.  But  he  was 
always  a  wonder  with  horses,  and  a  way  with 
him  —  I  have  more  than  a  doubt  if  that  young 
Hickson  will  get  his  bill  paid  now.  .  .  . 

[The  next  document  is  appropriately  Kells' 
Programme,  the  subject  of  so  much  intense  and 
secret  confabulation.  It  was  enclosed  and  com- 
mented upon,  in  a  letter  from  the  Dowager 
Duchess  to  a  family  friend  at  the  upper  end  of 
Egypt,  with  whom  she  preserved  a  full,  stately, 
and  most  publishable  correspondence.  The 
Duke's  mother  was,  needless  to  say,  a  more  no- 
table figure  than  either  of  her  sons,  and  kept 
them  and  their  households  well  under  criticism. 
The  only  point  where  her  attitude  weakened  — 
it  is  not  uncommon  in  grandmothers  —  was 
towards  the  new  generation,  and  especially  the 
heir  of  the  house;  though  it  is  clear  by  copious 
evidence  she  never  let  Kells  discover  it. 

The  programme  was  really  a  creditable  work 


50  JAMESIE 

of  art,  given  the  age  of  the  pair  who  composed 
it,  just  under  and  just  over  seven.  More,  it  was 
a  labour  of  love,  being  for  "  mother,"  the  mother 
of  the  printer.  It  was  strenuously  spelt,  with 
much  consultation  of  authority,  and  only  quite  a 
few  of  the  letters  were  wrong  way  round.  Fi- 
nally, it  was  illuminated,  and  "  goldened,"  with 
Jamesie's  mother's  gold  paint.  The  edition  de 
luxe,  of  which  the  dowager  owned  one,  was 
limited  to  four  copies,  strictly.] 

HOLMER   CRICKET  AFTERNOON, 

1914. 

30TH  ANNIVERSARY  DUCHESS  J.  OF  WICK- 
FORD'S  BIRTHDAY. 

Done  by  Kelts  (Rt.  Hon.  K.C.B.  etc.)  assisted 
by  J.  C.  Suir  (Hon.  F.L.S.,  R.A.  etc.) 

2.10.  Special  Train. 

2.45.  Cricket  Match,  men  left  hand,  ladys  right, 
Captains  Elevens  Rev.  Canon  Oxbor- 
ough,  Blue  Oxford,  Miss  Madcap  Pen- 
nant, Schools  England  chalenge  shield. 

4.30.  Tea.     (Half-time.) 

7.        Supper  (people  under  16) 

7.45.  Dinner  (other  people) 

9.        Mask    Ball,    characters    any,    uniforms 


THE    STRIFE  51 

aloud,  no  dogs  or  children  under  3  by 
order,  Kells. 

GOD  SAVE  THE  KING. 

The  Dowager,  to  Sir  George  Trenchard. 

You  see  how  we  are  engaged.  My  grandson's 
details  are  so  exact,  that  I  feel  further  comment 
is  superfluous.  The  only  note  I  need  add  is  that 
none  of  the  times  were  kept.  Fortunately 
Lionel  is  here  to  keep  me  in  countenance,  other- 
wise, I  must  have  flinched,  for  fashion  is  increas- 
ingly for  the  eccentric,  and  it  leads  even  rational 
people  to  do  extraordinary  things.  Janet,  I  up- 
hold, is  rational :  it  is  her  strongest  quality.  She 
is,  most  plain  to  see,  a  rock,  amid  the  excitable, 
hysterical  girls  of  the  period,  who  do  their  best 
to  draw  her  in  their  wake.  But,  suffragette  as 
she  calls  herself,  playfully,  she  has  always  known 
where  to  stop,  —  of  course  her  position  helps 
her.  She  and  I  are  very  much  in  agreement,  as 
soon  as  we  come  to  talk  seriously;  and  it  makes 
it  the  more  astounding  to  see  the  flood  of  sheer 
nonsense,  of  sheer  froth,  that  a  woman  of  any 
wealth  and  style  has  to  deal  with  nowadays.  It 
was  a  little  to  observe  this  side  of  things,  and 


52  JAMESIE 

rather  against  my  son's  inclination,  that  I  came 
down  to  her  birthday  celebrations. 

Fortunately  I  was  prepared,  by  some  knowl- 
edge of  the  world  we  live  in.  I  think  of  you, 
and  what  you  would  have  felt.  And  it  is  the 
women,  I  own  it;  I  often  think  the  majority  of 
the  men  are  bored.  My  sons  are  not,  of  course, 
nothing  frivolous  bores  them:  the  Irish  quality 
adapts  itself  to  the  outre,  to  the  indecent,  I  am 
inclined  to  say.  My  elder  son  is  better  than  he 
used  to  be :  one  may  say  marriage  has  done  some- 
thing for  him,  and  it  is  probably  not  his  fault 
that  not  the  smallest  grain  of  respect  is  shown 
him  by  the  girls.  These  Pennants,  a  quartette 
whom  you  may  remember,  make  fun  of  him 
and  Janet  openly,  of  their  domesticity;  and  the 
married  one,  Mrs.  Monk,  is  of  course  the  worst. 
(She  is  the  Rosalind  I  used  to  be  so  nervous 
about,  with  Wickford.)  I  do  not  think  their 
origin  is  anything  remarkable,  but  they  special- 
ise in  what  we  now  call  vitality,  and  what  we 
used  to  call  by  another  name.  I  am  inclined  to 
say  the  youngest  is  the  best-bred:  there  is  hope 
for  her,  at  least,  as  she  comes  from  a  good  school. 
However,  she  seems  perfectly  able  to  deal  with 
men.  This  is  the  Madcap  of  the  programme;  I 


THE    STRIFE  53 

told  Kells,  too  late,  that  nicknames  should  not 
be  used.  She  is  a  tall  child,  plays  exactly  like  a 
boy  in  pads,  with  nothing  to  call  a  skirt,  and  her 
sleeves  rolled  up,  and  she  is  burnt  almost  as 
brown  as  Iveagh.  Of  course  Lionel  adopted 
her.  I  saw  him  with  his  arm  round  her,  when 
she  was  finally  bowled  out,  explaining  to  her 
how  she  should  have  avoided  it.  This  was  all 
very  well,  and  acceptable  no  doubt,  but,  though 
Lionel  made  a  very  good  score  for  his  age,  this 
Pennant  child  doubled  it.  She  soared  across 
the  century,  as  Herbert  poetically  said,  and  hit 
Iveagh's  and  Lionel's  bowling  all  about  the 
place.  It  was  really  extraordinary  to  see  the 
men,  —  grown  men,  —  debating  how  to  get  rid 
of  her.  Then  Herbert's  footman  bowled  her, 
providentially.  It  may  be  the  old  Adam  in  me, 
George,  but  I  cannot  see  the  men  of  my  house, 
even  left-handed,  beaten  by  a  pack  of  Pennants. 
The  stable-men  in,  the  field  started  a  round  of 
applause  as  she  walked  out,  and  they  did  it 
again  when  she  shook  hands  with  Lionel  at  the 
end,  very  nicely,  with  a  wide  smile.  She  is  as 
ridiculously  pretty  as  her  sisters,  though  their 
smiles,  having  practice,  are  less  open-mouthed. 
Of  course  the  girls  were  beaten,  finally. 


54  JAMESIE 

[Herbert  divides  the  letter  at  this  point,  in 
order  to  insert  the  scores.] 

The  Ladies'  Score,  by  St.  John  Herbert. 

The  Duchess,  a  trim  20,  caught  and  bowled  the 

Duke,  most  appropriate. 
Joyce,  a  tolerable  12,  muckered  others,  bowled 

Francis  on  sight. 
Linda  Monk,  a  duck,  called  by  Shere  "  suitable." 

Bowled  Francis. 
Laura,    an   indescribable   8,    missed   twice   by 

Iveagh,  and  caught  by  Shere. 
Trix  Adler,  a  transatlantic  23   (can't  keep  up 

this  alliteration).     Caught  rather  nicely  by 

Wickford.    Bowled  Iveagh. 
Jeannette,  a  painful  incidental  8,  what  I  mean  is 

the  Canon  and  the  umpire  differed,     l.b.w. 

Bowled  Iveagh. 

[Interval  for  hair-dressing.    All  the  field  lay 
down.] 

Sophie,  a  French  6.    Fell  over  wickets.    Bowled 

Francis. 
Miss  Kitchin,  o.    Disqualified  for  trying  to  kill 

Kells. 
Lettice,  a  touching  twain.    Caught  Author,  who 


THE    STRIFE  55 

is  good  for  something.     Bowled  Francis  as 

usual. 
Sybil,  an  English  18,  entirely  to  leg,  stuck  in  the 

whole  time,  and  would  be  there  to-morrow, 

were  it  not  for  the  cows. 
Madeleine,  104,  five  fours,  ten  threes,  bowled 

Iveagh,  Oxborough,  Timothy,  yea  Francis. 

Finished  Francis.    Side  out. 

Total  audited  and  re-audited,  201. 

The  Men's  Score,  by  Miss  Adler. 

Captain     Oxborough,     54.       Caught     Sophie, 

bowled  Mad. 

Stephen,  30.    Caught  Sybil,  full-length. 
Wickford,  12.    Runout.    Very  good-tempered. 
Kells,  o.    Too  bad.    Bowled  Laura,  I  think. 
Herbert,  o.    Why,  what  shall  I  say?    Bowled 

Laura. 

Shere,  7.    Bowled  Maddie,  certainly. 
Iveagh,  58.    Bowled  Maddie.    But  of  course  he 

ought. 

Masters,  5.    All  byes,  owing  to  Linda  flirting. 
Pelham,  2.    Bowled  Linda,  the  only  thing  to  do 

with  her. 
*Mr.  Blaikie,  156,  not  out,  starred  by  Baedeker. 


$6  JAMESIE 

Tim,  60.    Snubbed  by  Iveagh,  for  a  reason  you 
will  see  on  comparing  their  scores. 

i 
The  Dowager,  in  continuation. 

The  evening  followed,  and  I  should  like  to 
say  a  word  for  my  daughter-in-law:  she  cer- 
tainly did  what  she  could.  But  nobody  could 
have  done  anything  with  Iveagh.  Iveagh  has 
chosen  to  come  back  this  time  by  way  of  "Ire- 
land, and  has  swept  it  all  up  again,  accent  and 
all,  —  I  need  not  enlarge.  He  took  the  manage- 
ment right  out  of  Janet's  hands,  and  my  son's 
also.  The  girls  —  well  —  and  yet  he  did  noth- 
ing, that  anyone  could  see.  He  pretended  to  be 
ill,  sat  down  by  us  and  shivered  at  intervals.  It 
was  simply  that  the  Pennant  crew  got  worse  as 
soon  as  he  came  near  them,  nothing  but  that. 
I  appealed  to  Wickford  to  restrain  him,  and 
Wickford,  looking  quite  comfortable,  with 
Aileen  on  his  knee,  said  —  "  What  from?  "  So 
I  said,  low  of  course,  I  was  glad  Elizabeth  was 
not  present.  And  John  Shere,  who  was  sitting 
beyond  me  disguised  in  an  apron  or  something 
said  I  should  find  few  people  to  agree  with  me, 
and  asked  confirmation  from  young  Crawford, 
who  was  playing  with  Kells.  It  is  their  letting 


THE    STRIFE  57 

the  children  in  for  such  things  that  seems  to  me, 
to  say  the  least,  unnecessary.     Kells  has  a  ter- 
/ibly  worldly-wise  expression  at  times. 

Well,  at  last  Janet,  pressed  by  me,  took  Iveagh 
to  task.  She  said  she  did  not  want  to,  joking, 
but  she  perceived  her  duty,  as  Wickford  did  not. 
The  girl  is  tired,  certainly,  —  Elizabeth  may  be 
right  she  does  too  much.  I  wish  she  would  drop 
some-  of  these  committees,  but  I  have  spoken  of 
that.  .  .  .  Iveagh  and  she  sat  out  a  dance  in  her 
bedroom.  This  may  be  taken  to  illustrate  Janet, 
who,  though  a  particularly  nice  girl,  is  insen- 
sible in  certain  ways.  I  should  almost  say  hard 
-  let  us  call  it  stubborn.  She  thinks  of  one 
thing  at  a  time.  .  .  .  That  room  is  the  one  that 
used  to  be  mine:  but  having  resources  that  I 
never  had,  she  has  enlarged  it,  thrown  out  a  big 
bay  on  the  garden,  with  a  view  of  the  park,  the 
Avenue  trees  falling  away  to  the  left  hand,  very 
prettily.  Characteristically,  she  keeps  the  win- 
dows wide  open,  —  wide,  —  I  have  heard  her 
maid,  who  is  foreign,  complain  of  the  draught. 
Well,  I  do  not  know  why  I  tell  you  all  this,  un- 
less to  account  for  Janet,  illustrate  her  as  it  were, 
since  she  is  important  to  us:  and  also,  that  you 
remember  the  old  place,  and  will  feel  with  me 


58  JAMESIE 

for  any  changes,  even  for  the  better.  Let  me 
proceed. 

She  came  out  after  a  very  long  time,  at  least 
two  dances,  and  having  a  good  chance,  I  spoke 
to  her,  for  I  really  thought  she  had  been  unwise. 
She  forgets  that  eyes  are  on  her.  I  said  very 
little,  so  far  as  I  remember,  giving  her  plenty 
of  excuse,  saying  it  might  be  Iveagh's  undoubted 
resemblance  to  her  own  husband  misleads  her 
at  times.  Well,  on  any  ordinary  occasion  her 
frankness  would  have  accepted  it,  certainly,  and 
as  it  was  meant  She  is  frank,  breezy,  —  a 
draughty  northern  girl.  But  no,  —  she  flamed 
out,  and  told  me,  first,  she  would  let  nobody  but 
her  own  mother  speak  to  her  of  things  like  that; 
and  next,  that  there  was  nowhere  else  in  the 
house  to  be  quiet,  which  was  certainly  true. 
But  why  should  she  need  to  be  quiet?  And  then 
she  said  he  was  her  brother,  ar-d  turned  away. 
But  he  is  not,  —  Stephen  is.  Would  she,  I  asked, 
have  done  that  same  with  Stephen? 

She  cried.  I  had  not  the  least  intention  of 
making  her,  in  fact  I  could  not  have  conceived 
it.  She  is  certainly  not  herself.  She  took  Aileen 
from  Wickford  to  conceal  it,  but  he  saw,  and  it 
is  probable  the  child  did  too.  I  may  have  done 


THE    STRIFE  59 

wrong  to  speak.  It  is  a  commonplace  that  the 
Scotch  nature,  which  looks  hard,  is  sensitive, 
just  as  my  sons'  Irish  nature,  which  looks  soft, 
can  be  as  stiff  as  nails.  I  did  not  at  all  want  to 
hurt  Janet.  She  is  an  excellent  wife.  And  he 
is  very  fond  of  her,  I  am  glad  to  say.  However, 
when  I  tried  to  explain  he  passed  me  over,  lay- 
ing it  no  doubt,  as  I  was  inclined  to  do,  to  other 
things. 

The  Duchess  of  Wickjord,  to  the  Countess  of 
Kirkcudbright. 

[Herbert  had  great  difficulty  in  getting  this 
valuable  letter.] 

MOTHER  DARLING,  MY  OWN: 

It  is  late,  or  early,  but  I  must  write  to  you. 
The  house  has  gone  to  sleep.  My  babies  are 
safe,  tucked  up,  my  youngest  with  his  arms 
above  his  head,  correctly,  —  do  you  ever,  in 
these  days,  think  of  yours? 

I  have  your  youngest  here,  Mother,  I  am 
sticking  to  him.  I  shall  stick  to  him  till  he  kills 
me,  as  I  sometimes  think  he  means  to  do.  Oh, 
he  is  brutal,  yes,  to  me,  —  he  has  learnt  nothing, 
nothing,  from  all  the  women  he  has  known. 


60  JAMESIE 

And  yet  he  has  known  such  splendid  ones,  really, 
beginning  with  you  and  finishing  with  Bess. 
You  have  seen  my  artist  sister-in-law,  have  n't 
you?  And  Joyce,  in  this  house,  is  another  girl 
with  deep  depths  in  her,  things  quite  out  of  his 
reach.  I  hope  we  have  persuaded  her  to  go  to 
Germany,  and  find  in  music  some  of  what  she 
has  lost  in  him.  But  for  a  girl  like  Joyce,  meant 
for  marriage  and  the  intensities,  it  is  such  a 
second-best. 

Well,  it  is  all  true.  Conor's  brother  told  me 
the  truth  of  it  in  this  room  this  evening.  It  may 
be  he  has  told  Conor  other  things,  but  I  think 
he  has  not  —  they  are  both  so  sorry  for  me. 
They  are  respectful  for  my  shame.  You  see, 
mother,  they  are  honourable  men.  Gentlemen 
I  am  sick  of,  the  servants  use  it.  And  there  are 
honourable  men,  just  dealers,  among  my  ser- 
vants, and  there  are  true  lovers  too.  My  maid 
had  the  choice  of  Steenie  and  one  of  these,  and 
she  has  chosen  rightly.  An  honest  girl,  a  clever 
girl,  knows  by  looking  in  Steenie's  eyes.  Pas- 
sion itself  stops  in  time.  He  has  no  faith  in  him, 
he  has  no  honesty  with  himself  or  God,  he  has 
no  courage,  mother.  Women  find  that  out. 

It  is  not  only  that  Steenie  has  left  undone  in 


THE    STRIFE  61 

Ireland,  scamped  every  duty  he  ought  to  per- 
form, picked  up  people  of  his  own  sort  to  play 
with,  and  spy-hunted,  as  they  called  it,  invent- 
ing charges  like  schoolboys,  playing  with  fire, 
as  Conor  rightly  said.  He  has  not  the  least  idea 
of  the  present  real  dangers,  true  problems,  in  the 
other  island,  which  my  man  and  others  are 
working  at,  frantically,  night  and  day.  He  was 
desperately  indiscreet,  and  silly,  made  bitter 
enemies  for  all  of  us,  and  tired  his  own  friends 
at  last.  But  it  is  not  only  that,  nor  even  that  he 
cannot  be  trusted  with  women  —  that  we  know, 
alas.  He  cannot  be  trusted  with  money,  mother. 
Do  not  tell  father  ever,  but  it  is  the  shameful 
fact. 

They  say,  these  two  who  are  so  kind  to  me, 
that  the  money  is  mine.  Can  you  not  see  him 
saying  that,  the  man  I  married?  Giving  me 
back  the  money  to  give  to  Steenie  —  but  no. 
There  is  something  in  me  will  not  take  that 
pretty  argument,  made  to  console  me,  to  tuck 
me  up  with  consolation  by  their  nice  eyes.  It 
is  not  only  man  and  wife,  my  goods  being 
Conor's.  It  is  a  much  deeper-set  thing  in  me, 
which  I  see  beginning  to  strive  in  my  canny  son 
as  well.  I  tried  to  explain  it  to  Kells  last  Sun- 


62  JAMESIE 

day,  with  Steenie  in  mind.  There  are  official 
proprieties,  on  earth :  in  some  things  we  are  all 
soldiers,  obeying  little  laws,  hemming  us  in,  by 
way  of  practice,  when  the  great  call  comes,  for 
the  worse  test  of  letting  ourselves  go.  Have  I 
put  that  clearly?  I  don't  think  my  boy  followed 
quite,  but  you  are  cleverer!  Stephen  is  a  bad 
soldier  —  a  bad,  bad  soldier  —  it  is  fearful  to 
say  so,  in  our  family.  I  tremble  really  lest 
father  should  see  this.  Yet  it  is  my  strongest 
feeling.  His  life  is  full  of  loose  stitches.  It 
was  such  a  chance  for  him,  such  a  chance,  my 
generous  man  gave  him:  interesting  work,  fas- 
cinating place  and  people,  an  income  plentiful 
even  for  him.  And  all  he  could  find  to  do  was 
back-bite  and  cheat  and  amuse  himself  at  others' 
expense.  Iveagh  sat  here,  facing  me  in  my  own 
room,  and  told  me  so.  ... 

The  Servants'  Hall,  to  Miss  Madeleine  Pennant. 

Miss  MADELEINE, 

Your  congratulations,  Miss,  to  Tim  and 
Blakie  are  very  acceptable,  and  we  wish  to  have 
the  honour  of  drinking  your  health.  It  will 
follow  the  Duchess's,  as  you  will  readily  under- 
stand, being  her  anniversary  which  the  Duke 


THE    STRIFE  63 

allows.  Your  playing,  if  I  may  say  so  Miss, 
and  accepting  of  defeat  far  from  deserved  per- 
sonally, does  honour  to  an  English  education, 
and  we  wish  long  life  to  you,  and  many  more 
Centuries  hereafter  to  the  credit  of  your  Bat. 
Mr.  Herbert  helped  in  this. 

(Signed)  A.  J.  PELHAM.      DANIEL  MASTERS. 
FRANCIS  BLAKIE.  TIM  GEOGHAN. 

(Signed  additionally) 

WICKFORD.  LIONEL  OXBOROUGH. 

SHERE.  ST.  JOHN  HERBERT. 

KELLS.  IVEAGH  Sum. 

S.  K.  CRAWFORD. 

Canon  Oxborough,  to  the  Rev.  Frank . 

DEAR  FRANK, 

I  know  the  evolution  of  our  younger  world 
interests  you,  and  no  one  is  more  aware  than 
you  how  very  careful  one  must  be  about  putting 
in  an  oar.  I  have  had  the  opportunity  here  of 
assisting  at,  and  I  trust  helping  in,  a  peculiarly 
delicate  situation.  My  tack  in  such  circum- 
stances is  to  go  quietly,  and  preserve  an  easy 
appearance:  not  "knowing,"  which  is  hopeless 
with  our  young  gallants,  but  equable;  above  all, 


64  JAMESIE 

not  to  let  myself  be  taken  aback.  The  habit  of 
"  scoring,"  especially  over  one's  elders  and  bet- 
ters, prevails  exceedingly.  My  sister  Gertrude, 
a  clever  woman  of  her  own  date,  does  fairly 
well,  but  she  is  too  much  given  to  taking  the 
pedestal.  Thus  confidences  are  granted  me,  and 
constantly,  which  never  come  her  way. 

My  nephews,  being  of  the  blood  you  know  — 
there  is  very  little  of  their  mother  in  them  — 
let  things  run  with  singular  recklessness.  The 
result  was,  to  put  it  shortly,  we  sailed  uncom- 
monly near  the  wind.  How  near,  to  bloodshed 
even,  I  know  from  Wickford  this  morning,  but 
I  had  more  than  a  winged  hint  or  two  in  my 
pastoral  bag  last  night. 

The  day  started  with  cricket — I  believe  I 
mentioned  these  young  women  had  persuaded 
me  to  bend  my  aged  back  above  a  bat  again.  It 
was  like  old  days,  and  I  knocked  up  a  decent 
fifty,  on  a  pitch  nobody  had  taken  the  trouble 
to  put  in  order,  since  the  fixture  was  regarded 
as  a  farce.  The  girl  bowling  was  a  remarkably 
pretty,  capable  little  (etc.)  dressed  like  a  Diana, 
and  fairly  deadly  once  she  had  found  her  length. 
She  bowled  Jack  Shere,  a  far  from  incapable 


THE    STRIFE  65 

player,  at  the  third  ball,  and  Jack's  face  was 
really  amusing  to  see  when  it  took  place.  I 
punished  her,  since  it  was  my  duty,  and  my 
great-nephew  ran  for  me  when  I  could  no  more. 
I  was  only  out  by  a  miracle,  as  you  must  grant, 
the  ladies'  maid  (French)  happening  to  hold 
the  ball. 

The  heroine  of  our  modern  drama  was  the 
young  Diana's  sister,  a  girl  I  did  not  especially 
observe  till  she  came  down  to  dinner  dressed. 
The  women  on  the  field  were  fitly  clad,  and 
pleasingly,  in  white  to  'match  the  men.  From 
that  minute  I  was  prepared  for  other  changes  — 
yet  scarcely  for  all  that  appeared.  I  had  already 
been  told  she  was  a  Suffragette,  and  supposed 
her  the  ordinary  Rampant  —  but  there  was 
more  than  that.  Something  had  gone  wrong; 
it  seemed  to  me  she  had  lost  something,  some 
elementary  control,  which  one  takes  for  granted 
in  a  woman  in  well-bred  society.  The  kindest 
reading  is  that  she  was  really  not  responsible, 
and  I  believe  my  nephew  now  inclines  to  that. 
It  is  true  she  had  a  grievance,  if  you  may  call 
it  so.  My  hostess's  brother,  a  handsome  young 
rascal,  who  turned  up  in  the  trappings  of  his 
Training  Corps,  had  lately  thrown  the  girl  over, 


66  JAMESIE 

or  threatened  to  —  a  painful  situation,  but  one 
which  as  a  rule  appeals  to  a  woman's  pride. 
Alas,  pride  is  far  to  seek  in  the  sisterhood  nowa- 
days. She  tried  first  to  pique  him,  by  attending 
to  others,  freely.  Then,  seeing  him  dancing 
with  her  sister  a  second  time,  she  suddenly  lost 
her  head,  and  threw  expressions  about  that  she 
may  have  learnt  street-preaching  with  the  com- 
munity. We  grew  indignant.  The  poor  little 
girl  had  done  nothing.  I  warned  my  nephew 
to  take  steps. 

Later,  his  son  and  heir,  a  bright  youngster, 
had  been  telling  me  in  great  detail  the  history 
of  his  horse's  illness  —  of  course  all  Wickf ord's 
olive-branches  ride.  It  seemed  they  had  been 
on  the  point  of  destroying  it  the  day  before,  but 
my  younger  nephew  turned  up  and  saved  it.  ... 
About  here,  I  became  aware  of  Miss  J gaz- 
ing fixedly  at  us,  across  the  bay  of  the  ballroom 
where  some  of  us  had  retired  to  rest.  (The 
dance,  like  the  cricket  which  preceded  it,  was 
vaguely  described  as  a  "  rag,"  and  rest  was  occa- 
sionally needful,  even  for  the  young  and  healthy. 
Thus  you  can  imagine  what  it  was  for  young 
Herbert,  who  is  delicate,1  and  me.)  J is  a 

1  I  am  not. 


THE    STRIFE  67 

girl  of  almost  indecorous  beauty,  with  a  gay 
pink  colour,  quite  natural,  red  lips,  and  the  most 
wonderful  eyes.  I  had  hardly  observed  her  eyes 
before,  till  I  met  them  in  this  manner.  Her 
head  lay  back,  her  arms  along  the  chair,  her 
look  transfixed  as  though  she  would  have  mes- 
merised us,  very  singular. 

"  Poor  little  fellow,"  she  said  dreamily. 
"  Beauty,  is  n't  he?  Will  you  take  me  down  to 
see?" 

"  All  right,"  says  Kells. 

"  You  '11  get  a  spanking  if  you  do,"  I  said 
avuncularly.  I  had  heard  my  nephew  particu- 
larly forbid  him  to  go  near  the  stable. 

"J won't,"  says  Kells.  Little  imp!  — 

he  was  aware,  of  course,  of  an  audience. 

"  How  do  you  know  that?  "  says  Shere,  and 
so  on.  The  girl  lay  listening  in  the  same  atti- 
tude, and  with  the  most  absolute  ease.  As  soon 
as  I  saw  a  chance  I  moderated  Jack,  who  is  a 
good  fellow,  but  runs  a  joke  to  death  when  he 
gets  it.  I  explained  to  him  the  horse  was  a  fine 
one,  and  Iveagh,  my  nephew  in  question,  quite 
right  to  run  no  risks. 

"  But  he  's  Kells',  is  n't  he?  "  says  the  girl. 
She  looked  like  a  siren,  eyes  half  shut.  "  Will 


68  JAMESIE 

you  take  me,  Kells?  —  and  save  me  from  the 
dragons — the  dreadful  dragons?  After  all,  he 
belongs  to  you." 

"Yes,  Biscuit's  mine,"  says  Kells;  but  he 
looked  doubtful.  The  spanking  was  something 
more  than  visionary,  in  his  case.  Finally,  he 
jumped  up.  "  I  '11  take  you,  come  along,"  he 
says,  raffishly. 

Well,  I  let  them  go,  because  I  did  not  believe 
he  would  do  it.  Wickford's  children  are  in 
order.  But  presently  Iveagh  himself  came 
down,  and  I  began  to  realise,  by  the  storm  of 
chaff  that  fell  upon  him,  the  rights  of  things. 
This  is  Gertrude's  younger  son,  the  traveller 
and  tropical  botanist,  regarded  by  her  as  some- 
thing of  a  mauvais  sujet  formerly  but  developed 
and  even  distinguished  since.  He  was  and  is  a 
mighty  pretty  rider  —  elegant,  to  use  their  own 
jargon.  Unhorsed  and  brought  to  earth  he  is 
an  odd  boy,  a  little  rough,  but  no  harm  in  him  as 
I  have  long  proved.  He  is  rather  fond  of  me.1 

"  She  's  doing  it  to  annoy,"  he  observed  in  my 
direction.  "  Tim  won't  let  them  past.  I  placed 
him." 

"Oh,  won't  he?"  said  Jack.     "You  should 

1  This  is  true. 


THE    STRIFE  69 

have  seen  her.  You  '11  not  deny  Timothy  has  a 
heart?  " 

"  Then,"  says  Iveagh,  "  it  '11  be  the  worse  for 
him."  And  he  sat  down  by  me. 

«  Not  J ?  "  Jack  chaffed.  "  Oh,  do  give  it 

J .  Why,  she  was  asking  for  it,  was  n't  she, 

sir?  "  I  regret  to  say  he  appealed  to  me. 

My  nephew  seemed  uninterested.  We  fell 
into  family  conversation  apart,  to  which  he  pres- 
ently attached  his  own  little  boy.  When  the 
latter  was  leaving  us,  I  said  to  him  quite  care- 
lessly —  "  I  am  glad  your  father  did  not  have  to 
shoot  the  poney." 

"  Who  spoke  of  shooting?  "  said  my  nephew 
at  once.  He  is  not  much  of  a  talker,  and  had 
been  letting  the  child  do  it  for  him.  It  is  an 
especially  attractive  child,  and  Iveagh  likes 
"  scoring  "  with  it  over  his  brother's  offspring 
when  he  can.  (My  Irish  nephews  "  play  "  their 
children  against  one  another,  publicly:  they  are 
a  comical  pair.) 

I  told  him  Kells  had  done  so  lately;  and  pro- 
ceeded, relaxing  a  little  at  the  boy's  departure, 
to  an  anecdote  of  a  horse  of  mine.  Iveagh  inter- 
rupted me,  to  my  surprise.  He  asked,  did  the 
girl  hear? 


70  JAMESIE 

"  Miss  J ?  Hear  about  the  shooting? 

Well,  she  was  sitting  just  over  there." 

He  considered  a  moment,  looking  about  him. 
"  I  'd  better  see  to  it,"  he  remarked  audibly;  and 
amid  a  roar  of  laughter  from  Shere  and  com- 
pany, he  left  the  room. 

Ten  minutes  later  again,  I  observed  Master 
Kells  slip  by  me  on  the  staircase,  and  he  was 
crying.  I  tried  to  stop  him,  but  he  fled.  Experi- 
ence, alas,  had  pointed  the 'moral  from  which  his 
great-uncle  refrained. 

[There  is  plenty  more  of  Oxborough,  says 
Herbert,  but  I  abandon  him,  with  excuse,  for 
others.  He  evidently  thought  as  he  chatted  with 
his  friend,  he  had  fathomed  everything  at  the 
moment.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  got  little  fur- 
ther than  his  sister,  that  night.  He  fathomed 
successfully,  but  it  occurred  the  next  morning, 
when  both  the  Suirs  took  him  in  hand,  with 
caution  and  courtesy  befitting  his  dignified 
estate.] 

Tim  Geoghan,  to  St.  John  Herbert.    Disgrace- 
fully dirty. 

MR.  HERBERT, 

This  is  to  tell  you  I  am  in  fear  of  my  life 
with  his   Lordship   having  knocked   a  couple 


THE    STRIFE  71 

extra  in  my  score  as  you  notticed,  and  cannot 
leave  the  Poney  by  command  this  night.  And 
here  he  sends  me  seeking  his  belongins  with  it, 
so  what  in  the  name  of  unreason  will  I  do? 
Pleased  as  I  am  to  serve  I  cannot  be  in  two 
places,  nor  in  such  necesities  as  he  plants  upon 
me  ast  the  undergrooms.  It  is  unreason  in  him 
he  being  beside  himself  surly  not  getting  to  her  as 
is  quite  to  be  understood.  And  yet  he  will  have 
the  head  of  me  if  he  discovers  wrong  and  the 
Ladies  already  disturbing  us  to  look  at  the  Ani- 
mal women  should  know  better  tho  nothing  agst 
Miss  Joyce.  But  if  you  please  prevent  Ld  Kells 
bringing  her  with  the  nerves  Biscuit  has  I  would 
be  thankful.  And  if  you  please  lend  me  Blakie 
or  wantin  him  come  yourself  for  the  intavel  of 
time  I  am  absent  looking  up  the  gerl. 

T.  GEOGHAN. 

[If  only,  comments  Herbert,  all  witnesses  were 
as  transparent  as  Tim,  we  documentaries  would 
have  an  easier  time  of  it.  There  was  no  doubt 
whatever  who  the  "  belongins  "  and  the  "  gerl  " 
were,  for  I  tested  Shere  on  the  spot,  and  he  said 
—  "  Oh,  the  devil,  one  for  Joyce."  Yet  of  course 
we  had  to  take  Bess  seriously,  though  we  still  in- 
clined to  the  frivolous,  not  to  say  ribald,  concern- 


72  JAMESIE 

ing  the  Pennants  and  Sophie.  We  had  not  yet 
seen  through  Joyce,  or  rather  through  Suir. 
Enlightenment  in  that  quarter  came  later,  see 
Janet.] 

The  Duke,  to  Kells,  delivered  by  Lettice. 

You  go  along  to  bed,  I  don't  care  to  look  at 
you.  Sending  Lettice  to  us  after  all  this  time, 
instead  of  coming  at  once  yourself.  I  have  your 
Mother's  word  for  you  it  is  unmilitary. 

WlCKFORD. 

Kells  to .    Written  three  times  'with  a  very 

black  pencil  on  the  wall-paper  of  his  own 
room. 

I  hate  him,  Biscuit 's  mine. 

Madeleine  Pennant,  to  a  school-friend. 

[Herbert  calls  the  following  a  fine  example 
of  true  modesty  and  family  form,  and  contrasts 
it  favourably  with  Oxborough's.] 

Well,  of  all  seedy  fixtures,  between  ourselves, 
and  rotten  shows  on  Joyce's  part.  I  tell  you  I 
shall  be  glad  to  be  out  of  this.  I  thought  Joyce 
was  ill  when  she  fastened  me  to-night,  she  was 
shuddering  like  a  leaf.  But  it  was  rage,  pure 


THE    STRIFE  73 

and  perfect  rage  —  because  I  had  not  done  what 
was  expected  of  me.  .  .  .  My  dear  girl,  I  can't 
win  a  match  against  eleven  men,  even  left- 
handed,  all  alone:  especially  on  a  rotten  pitch, 
with  all  the  rest  spooning,  and  when  one  of  the 
opposite  eleven  happens  to  be  able  to  play.  It 
does  seem  to  me  a  bit  stiff,  but  Linda  seemed  as 
sick  as  Joyce,  very  nearly,  though  I  can't  say 
Linda  on  the  field  did  much  to  help.  The  natu- 
ral result  is  I  have  had  a  sickening  evening,  and 
my  head  aches  now  so  I  can't  get  to  sleep.  Linda 
gave  me  a  bottle  of  something,  but  you  don't 
catch  me,  I  'd  smash  it  if  I  dared.  I  feel  vicious, 
which  proves  it  can't  have  been  a  decent  match. 
Something  was  wrong  with  it  and  them.  It  was 
a  beautiful  ball  that  got  me  out.  .  .  .  There  is 
an  affectionate  Churchman  here,  which  of  all 
things  I  bar,  they  always  paw  you.  I  should  like 
to  catch  any  other  man  trying  it,  but  this  hap- 
pens to  be  the  Duke's  uncle.  .  .  .  The  kids  are 
topping  simply,  and  one  of  them  the  handsomest 
child  I  ever  saw.  They  cut  his  hair  American 
style,  straight  round  his  ears,  and  it  flops  when 
he  runs.  And  can't  he  run  just!  —  he  ran  for 
his  great-uncle.  He  is  the  only  one  without  a 
title,  but  they  are  quite  common  kids.  I  'd  have 


74  JAMESIE 

stopped  out  to  talk  to  them  gladly.  They  are 
quite  an  ordinary  family,  so  far  as  anyone  can 
see,  and  on  awfully  good  terms  with  one  an- 
other; which  really,  after  ours — !  There 
we  re 'two  uniforms  to-night,  three  if  you  count 
the  Duke,  splendiferous  to  look  at,  and  of  course 
thinking  a  lot  of  themselves  having  it  on.  Don't 
tell  Ann  and  Beaty,  but  sometimes,  seeing  the 
sort  of  man  you  meet  about,  I  wonder  how  our 
soldiers  would  behave  if  it  came  to  war.  I  en- 
close the  testimonial  the  servants  gave  me,  and 
I  mark  the  signatures  I  most  value.  More  you 
will  not  get  out  of  me :  but  I  hope,  when  I  am 
Joyce's  age,  I  shall  be  more  just,  that 's  all. 

[Francis,  Kells,  Herbert  and  Iveagh,  were 
the  names  Madeleine  marked.  She  might  have 
added  Shere,  who  got  very  cleverly  between  her 
and  Crawford.  Linda,  of  course,  failed  her  of- 
fice utterly  towards  Madeleine,  as  she  did 
towards  Joyce. 

I  proceed  to  Janet,  again  invaluable.  She 
starts  with  a  first-class  portrait,  having  declared 
in  preliminary  that  she  cannot  paint.  Francis 
too  —  I  was  grateful  to  Meg  Crawford  for  this 
letter.] 


THE   STRIFE  75 

The  Duchess,  to  her  sister  Meg. 

We  did  the  magnificent  last  night,  and  Iveagh 
took  care  of  our  dignity.  The  blessing  to  be 
done  for,  Meg,  and  when  you  have  been  dragged 
through  the  dust,  as  Steenie  has  dragged  me 
lately!  I  have  not  had  Conor's  company,  like 
that,  for  ages  past.  You  remember  my  brother- 
in-law,  don't  you?  if  not  I  cannot  help  you. 
Except  for  general  adequacy,  he  does  not  matter 
the  least.  He  simply  disappears  beside  his  wife, 
now  a  most  beautiful  woman.  He  has  a  little 
down-look,  sneaking  rather,  but  do  not  imagine 
shy,  and  he  goes  swinging  about  very  lightly,  as 
Conor  (alas!)  used  to  do.  He  has  a  horrible 
temper,  no-particular  manners,  and  the  chil- 
dren trust  him  utterly.  He  addresses  me  as 
"  Duchess "  nicely,  and  speaks  of  me  as  the 
woman  or  Jane.  His  own  wife  is  the  girl,  that 
is  the  difference.  It  has  made  my  husband  years 
younger  already  having  him. 

I  believe  he  saved  us  from  awful  things  last 
night,  or  St.  John  did,  though  what  I  have  not 
the  least  idea.  Conor,  who  probably  knows,  is 
quite  satisfied  all  is  well  this  morning,  though 
everybody  else  seems  fagged.  Iveagh  informed 
me,  the  only  time  I  caught  him  privately  during 


76  JAMESIE 

the  evening,  that  he  had  lost  the  trick  of  society, 
and  felt  out  of  it,  the  girls  had  gone  so  fast. 
But  nobody  would  ever  have  guessed  it.  He 
had  this  frightful  situation.  (I  am  slowly  realis- 
ing how  unfair  it  was.)  Jealousy,  awful :  a  girl 
jealous  of  her  own  sister,  and  that  a  little  girl 
of  sixteen.  Well,  a  jilt,  that  was  Steenie,  and 
enjoying  it,  simply  enjoying  the  suffering  he  had 
caused.  I  could  see  him,  with  my  eyes  shut,  tor- 
turing. It  was  shocking  —  shocking  because  it 
was  so  sly.  The  little  girl,  heroine  of  the  after- 
noon, conscious  and  half  crying,  in  a  cruel  posi- 
tion —  not  one  of  the  men  could  bear  to  see  that. 
It  was  comical  almost  —  they  all  came  to  me, 
one  after  another,  and  asked  me  to  stop  it  —  stop 
Steenie,  you  know. 

Well,  what  else,  for  Iveagh?  Oh  yes,  the 
most  beautiful  and  wildest  girl  making  rabid 
love  to  him  —  I  really  can  put  it  no  other  way  — 
and  shocking  his  own  poor  mother,  who  fell 
upon  me!  Once  he  came  near  me,  looking  for 
somebody,  and  I  touched  him,  telegraphing  as 
it  were  my  doubts.  "  Jolly,  is  n't  it?  "  said 
Iveagh,  looking  extremely  sneaking,  with  his 
eyes  aside;  threw  a  paper  and  a  programme  to 
St.  John,  and  joined  the  rout  again. 


THE    STRIFE  77 

I  had  to  leave  it  to  him.  I  felt  increasingly 
stupid,  paralysed  by  something,  it  must  have 
been  fear.  I  think  it  was  our  brother's  horrid 
calmness,  a  kind  of  slack  contentment,  trifling 
with  the  child  and  others;  and  the  conviction 
within  me,  nevertheless,  that  the  whole  un- 
healthy turmoil  turned  upon  him.  He  was  not 
even  drinking,  last  night,  and  Iveagh  was,  and 
Joyce  against  him  —  oh  me,  that  girl !  The  parts 
were  wrong,  do  you  see,  the  presences  anyhow. 
Steenie  at  his  best  looks  so  splendid,  so  appeal- 
ing, not  a  figure  on  the  field  to-day  to  stand  by 
him,  unless  that  of  the  crack  player,  Herbert's 
man. 

And  that  young  cricketer  stood  near  only  to 
contrast  with  him,  to  drive  the  inevitable  con- 
trast home.  I  saw  him  once,  while  I  was  play- 
ing with  Aileen,  come  into  the  hall.  It  sur- 
prised me,  for  an  absurd  reason :  I  had  given 
Sophie  most  special  leave  to  walk  with  him  in 
the  park.  They  are  lovers,  proper  lovers,  just 
engaged ;  and  much,  much  more  rigid  about  ren- 
dezvous than  people  like  Steenie  or  Jack.  I 
called  him  to  me,  having  a  chance,  and  I  said 
as  lightly  as  I  could  manage  —  "  I  hope  you 
have  not  forgotten  Sophie."  For  Steenie  makes 


78  JAMESIE 

one  light-headed:  one  grows  to  think  there  is 
no  such  thing  as  faith  or  honour  in  the  world. 
He  said  —  "  Oh  no,  your  Grace,  I  have  not  for- 
gotten her,"  —  with  just  a  little  bit  of  smile  in 
speaking.  The  best  kind  of  London  English, 
you  saw  at  once,  good  heart  with  a  touch  of 
irony:  the  British  lion  in  London,  you  know,  is 
ironical,  he  smiles  at  himself.  And  off  he  went 
again,  no  doubt  to  keep  his  appointment.  A 
man  —  the  relief !  .  .  . 

[So  much  for  the  Duchess:  now  for  the 
Duke.] 

The  Duke  to . 

[Discovered  on  a  ball  of  paper,  covered  with 
ghastly  objects  intended  for  horses,  tightly 
gripped  in  his  daughter's  hand.  Nurse,  a  pre- 
cisian, returned  it  to  Janet,  who  gave  it  to  Her- 
bert. He  dates  it  10.45,  an^  marks  it  "  very 
significant."] 

Look  here,  this  is  going  beyond  a  — «- 


THE    STRIFE  79 

Suir,  to  Herbert,  being  one  of  the  documents 
Janet  mentions,  which  fell  directly  from  his 
hands  into  mine.  It  is  scrawled  on  a  half- 
sheet  of  note-paper. 

She  will  do  for  him  if  this  goes  on.  Put  a 
guard  on  the  gunroom,  and  send  someone  down 
to  the  pond. 

[The  other  bit  of  evidence  is  a  girl's  pro- 
gramme, or  note  of  dances,  picked  up  presum- 
ably in  the  course  of  "  ragging,"  with  the  phrase 
written  across  the  top  which  finally  opened  our 
eyes.  The  language  used,  and  the  fact  that  it 
had  been  left  for  the  public  eye,  would  probably 
have  been  of  interest  to  a  doctor, — to  one  of 
those  doctors  of  to-day  who  deal  with  hysteria 
in  all  its  versions,  but  it  is  not  publishable  here. 
It  served  its  turn  on  the  spot:  and  passed  to 
the  Duke's  safe  charge,  or  safer  destruction, 
probably.] 

St.  John  Herbert,  to  the  world  at  large. 

Well,  odd  though  it  may  appear,  I  took  Suir 
seriously.  I  believed,  first,  that  he  would  not 
so  have  written,  if  he  had  not  been  in  sight  of 
the  end  of  his  resources  —  which  in  itself  means 
a  good  deal,  for  he  is  weirdly  clever  in  the  kind 
of  game.  And  next,  I  noticed  that  he  came  to 


8o  JAMESIE 

me  from  the  direction  of  Janet,  who  was  look- 
ing both  ill  and  anxious.  The  terms  between 
those  brothers  and  their  belongings,  as  Miss 
Madeleine  had  divined,  were  remarkably  true 
and  good  —  quite  trustworthy.  I  did  my  best 
from  that  moment  to  back  him  as  my  hostess's 
proxy:  though  still,  in  the  nature  of  things,  he 
had  all  the  stiffest  work.  Iveagh  surprised  me, 
I  may  say,  as  much  as  his  own  mother.  I  dis- 
covered the  full  depths  of  a  quiet  Irishman's 
capacity  for  flirting  that  night.  Nor  was  my 
backing  of  much  intrinsic  value:  since,  owing 
to  habit,  I  soon  fell  back  on  Francis. 

Forgetting  Francis's  engagement,  I  set  him, 
first,  to  find  the  keys  of  Wickford's  gunroom,  as 
the  simplest  way  to  guard  it.  He  tracked  them, 
by  means  of  the  butler,  to  the  charge  of  Mr. 
Crawford:  and  from  Mr.  Crawford's  gentle- 
manly pocket,  into  the  void. 

Francis  to  Herbert. 

The  missing  one  was  in  the  stable,  sir.  His 
lordship  has  it.  The  keys  may  be  anywhere.  I 
won't  lose  sight  of  the  door. 

As  for  the  rest  of  my  directions,  I  went  myself, 
as  the  person  best  to  be  spared  from  the  danc- 
ing, down  to  the  pond.  I  was  prepared  to  think 
it  foolish  to  go,  but  I  went.  I  met  Shere  at  the 


THE    STRIFE  81 

stairfoot,  and  stopped  to  give  him  a  hint  —  he 
hardly  needed  it  —  and  to  send  Janet  a  message, 
in  case  she  missed  me.  Jack  offered  to  go  to  the 
pond  instead  of  me,  as  it  was  raining:  kind  of 
him,  all  things  considered :  he  is  a  good  sort. 
Joyce — well,  Joyce  was  something  to  him:  not 
only  as  Linda's  sister,  but  something  apart.  We 
laughed  at  Joyce  and  her  causes  a  little,  but  she 
was  the  most  gifted  of  our  circle,  by  a  long 
way:  she  was  too  startling,  too  streaming  a  little 
personality  to  be  easily  spared :  even  had  not  her 
immediate  situation  appealed  to  another  instinct 
in  us  which  need  not  be  emphasised.  Joyce,  at 
her  wildest,  appealed  by  her  simplicity.  She 
had  abandoned  herself,  in  the  case  of  Crawford, 
in  the  sight  of  all ;  we  all  took  shares,  in  conse- 
quence, in  her  disappointment.  It  had  to  be  so, 
even  though  she  disdained  it.  Simultaneously, 
as  Wickford  wrote,  she  revolted  against  the  lot 
of  us.  Let  her  revolt!  Such  was  the  first  feeling 
of  the  Suirs:  such  was,  or  soon  became,  my  own 
opinion;  such,  as  soon  as  I  had  given  him  words 
for  it,  was  Jack's.  I  thought  of  stationing  him 
as  guard  on  the  guns,  and  letting  off  Francis. 
But  then,  I  did  not.  Francis  was  safer,  some- 
how: Francis  was  more  utterly  safe.  Possibly 
I  am  a  fool  about  Francis.  So  I  just  prepared 
a  few  lies,  for  Janet. 

And  at  the  very  moment,  we  heard  Joyce  be- 
hind us. 


82  JAMESIE 

"  You  spy —  you  beastly  little  spy!  Steenie  is 
right." 

I  saw  the  ineffable  Shere  start,  and  glance 
back.  She  was  looking  magnificent,  of  course, 
leaning  low  over  the  stairhead :  a  snake-woman, 
fascinating  consciously,  while  she  waited  to 
strike  again. 

Iveagh  answered  her  from  a  dozen  stairs 
below.  "  Well,  what  of  you,  going  over  to  the 
Germans!" 

The  Wickfords  had  been  trying  to  persuade 
Joyce  to  finish  her  musical  studies  at  Munich, 
which  her  engagement  had  cut  short.  I  forget 
if  anyone  mentions  it  in  the  letters.  Jack  knew 
the  fact,  as  I  did. 

"  Jove,  that 's  good  fighting!  "  he  observed,  to 
me,  waking  from  a  momentary  trance, 

Madeleine,  to  the  Duchess. 

[Delivered  by  Laura.  This  is  really  ante- 
dated, of  course,  to  her  previous  letter,  but  for 
the  context  is  necessary  here.  It  places  Jamesie.] 

Do  you  mind  awfully  if  I  go  to  bed?  I  have 
got  a  bit  of  a  headache,  the  sun  or  something. 
Don't  come  after,  I  mentioned  it  to  Linda,  I 
shall  be  all  right.  If  he  wants  to  know  where 
Joyce  is,  she  is  sitting  on  the  conservatory  step, 
smoking  —  Miss  Adler  is  there.  If  he  wants  to 


THE    STRIFE  83 

know  where  his  little  boy  is,  I  saw  him  in  the 
garden,  and  told  him  to  be  quick  and  go  in,  be- 
cause it  was  beginning  to  rain.  He  said  he  had 
a  message  to  somebody  in  the  garden,  from  some- 
body in  the  house.  Your  brother,  who  was  with 
me,  examined  him :  but  whatever  it  was,  he  did 
not  let  out.  I  did  not  think  somehow  his  father 
would  have  sent  him,  or  you :  so  thought  I  had 
better  mention  it.  Goodnight. 

MADELEINE  P. 

[The  next  two  of  the  series  are  love-letters, 
men's.  The  first  is  nicely  written;  the  second 
very  badly  indeed,  in  pencil,  neither  para- 
graphed nor  punctuated,  flung  off  full  tilt.] 

MY  SWEET  HEART. 

I  could  not  come,  you  must  excuse  and  be- 
lieve me  but  such  is  life.  Really  and  truly  darl- 
ing it  breaks  my  heart  to  disapoint  you,  on  my 
honour  I  was  on  the  edge  of  coming  off.  There  's 
many  a  slip  as  you  will  discover  like  it,  but  this 
is  the  worst  I  have  had.  Things  are  happening 
you  see  which  the  gentlemen  did  not  expect,  and 
Mr.  H.  so  put  out  he  has  forgotten  you  may  be 
sure.  I  am  here  on  duty  by  his  lordship's  choice, 
and  I  cannot  move,  and  you  not  to  come  to  me 


84  JAMESIE 

either,  it  is  not  safe.  There  is  no  danger  (un- 
derlined) only  a  squeak  that  might  occur  and 
no  allowing  it  in  the  circs  being  a  lady.  It  is 
just  unfortunate  (erased)  blasted  luck.  I  hope 
our  Score  pleased  you  it  was  for  your  sake  these 
ladies  are  nothing  to  me.  Mr.  Jamesie  will 
bring  you  this,  but  do  not  keep  him,  he  is  wanted 
upstairs.  I  love  you  and  I  will  never  fail  you 
after  this  one  time  so  help  me  God. 

F.  B. 

I  cannot  come  darling,  nor  have  you  waiting 
longer.  Go  back  where  you  came  from  and  let 
Tim  take  you  along  the  lane.  I  want  you  here 
God  knows  but  do  not  come  into  it,  nor  through 
to  the  children  without  me,  it  is  not  safe.  It  is 
a  soul  in  torment  he  has  presented  me,  and  she 
flirting  powerfully,  and  the  rest  of  us  managing 
to  keep  her  thoughts  engaged.  She  would  be 
embracing  me  at  a  word,  and  who  am  I  to  allow 
her,  with  you  waiting  in  the  rain  perhaps,  girl, 
life  of  me,  as  if  I  cared  for  them!  I  sat  with 
Jane  lately  in  the  room  that  used  to  be  Mother's 
in  its  ugly  days,  and  from  where  I  sat  I  could 
look  at  the  Avenue  trees.  It  was  rough  on  her 
as  I  supposed,  but  she  did  not  cry,  anyhow  while 


THE    STRIFE  85 

I  had  her,  and  Mother  has  tricks  would  do  for 
the  proudest,  as  you  know.  Wanting  me,  before 
now,  do  you  not?  Now  put  your  hood  on  the 
way  I  would  have  shown  you,  and  dont  let  Tim 
touch  you,  a  finger  of  you,  or  I  will  slay  the  rest 
of  him  as  I  did  not  last  night.  I  do  not  deserve 
you  but  no  man  does  better.  Believing  that 
firmly  helps  me  to  bear  it.  Till  I  see  you. 

I.  S. 

[Of  the  above  it  may  be  noted  that  Janet  was 
Bess's  friend :  and  that  she  barely  knew  Joyce. 
Thus,  Suir  told  her  what  he  believed  would  in- 
terest her,  more  particularly.] 

Pel  ham  to  Francis.     Written  two  days  later. 

Now  you  are  gone,  Blakie,  I  will  tell  you 
something.  I  thought  better  not,  so  long  as  you 
and  he  were  in  the  house  together,  and  also,  I 
own,  I  was  in  such  an  absolute  rage.  It  was  not 
only  the  insult  to  a  decent  household,  under 
proper  management,  which  I  have  not  divulged, 
least  of  all  to  Green,  who  would  have  felt  it. 
more  than  I  did.  There  was  also  Tim's  cocki- 
ness, needing  constant  sitting  on  by  the  lot  of  us, 
and  beyond  bounds  when  his  lordship  had 


86  JAMESIE 

trusted  him  to  go  to  the  gate.  Altogether  my 
temper  was  hardly  in  my  holding,  but  this  was 
the  worst. 

Take  it  easy,  won't  you.  He  asked  Sophie, 
in  my  hearing,  where  she  was  going  to  sleep  that 
night.  He  did  not  know  I  was  in  hearing,  hav- 
ing come  on  her  in  the  shrubbery,  but  I  was  tak- 
ing a  stroll  to  cool  my  cockles,  owing  to  Tim. 
I  had  not  thought  to  have  them  raised  again,  and 
in  such  a  manner. 

I  believe  even  at  my  age  I  would  have  been  at 
him,  for  the  girl  is  young,  and  there  she  was, 
with  no  one  to  speak  for  her,  but  bless  you,  she 
is  French.  They  need  no  one  to  speak  for  them, 
though  Sophie  is  a  thought  slower  than  the  last 
we  had.  The  Hon.  C.  had  made  a  little  mistake 
you  see,  knowing  the  race  she  came  of.  He  had 
not  reckoned  for  all  races  having  their  decent 
individuals,  as  I  could  answer.  The  French  are 
the  French,  and  I  do  not  pretend  to  know  them 
widely.  Eight  times  I  have  been  with  his  Grace 
to  the  Continental  Paris,  only  eight  times.  But 
to  put  the  figure  at  its  lowest,  Sophie  in  herself 
is  an  exception,  and  being  engaged  to  you,  any- 
one should  have  known  it.  The  girl  has  a  head, 
too,  she  did  not  cry.  I  stopped  to  hear  it  out 


THE    STRIFE  87 

naturally,  and  in  the  circs  you  will  excuse  me. 
I  knew  you  were  tied  to  the  gunroom,  and  so 
did  he.  So  did  he,  my  boy.  She  let  him  have 
it.  Not  in  French  either.  Snatching  about,  as 
it  were,  she  got  the  words.  They  were  rather 
surprising  words,  but  they  did  his  business.  Not 
half.  When  he  had  gone  I  waited  a  bit  and  then 
went  to  her,  and  there  she  was,  calm  and  queenly, 
sitting  on  a  seat.  Dressed  in  decent  black  as  she 
always  is.  Not  panting  even.  And  she  had  not 
spoken  loud.  I  just  said — "My  dear,  that's 
all  right.  You  can  bet  on  us  backing  you." 
Some  stuff  of  that  sort.  And  I  advised  her  to 
go  in. 

Nurse,  to  Iveagh.    Delivered  by  Pel  ham. 

MY  LORD, 

Jamesie  is  in,  heated  and  wringing  of 
course,  but  no  harm  done,  and  is  wishful  I 
should  explain.  I  said  it  was  better  he  should 
write  a  line  to  you,  since  it  is  the  way  of  true 
ease  to  unburden,  and  her  Ladyship  not  here. 
This  I  send  by  Pelham,  but  I  should  like  to  add 
the  affairs  of  the  servants  do  not,  as  a  rule,  come 
to  the  children's  ears.  I  am  far  from  liking  it, 
but  Sophie  is  French.  Knowing  the  French  as 


88  JAMESIE 

you  are  said  to  do  I  need  not  enlarge.  The  child 
is  rilled  with  admiration  of  the  cricketing-score, 
as  children  will  be,  which  is  how  I  suppose  he 
crossed  with  Mrs.  Monk. 

Yours  respectfully, 
C.  T.  JOHNSTONE  (Nurse). 

[Iveagh  chucked  me  this  with  a  whistle,  notes 
Herbert,  but  Jamesie's  he  concealed.  I  only  got 
it  out  of  him,  years  after,  by  resorting  to  the  most 
ignoble  devices.  I  own  I  began  to  believe  he 
had  lost  this  necessary  scrap  of  my  evidence,  but 
Lord,  no!  He  is  exactly  like  a  magpie.] 

Jamesie,  to  Iveagh. 

NURSERY  11.20. 

To  FATHER. 

I  was  not  lost  in  the  garden.  It  was  only 
I  had  a  mesage,  French,  rather  difacult,  I  had 
to  get  done.  So  that  made  another  mesage,  be- 
cause she  wanted  it.  So  that  made  another  mes- 
a£e  (3)  when  I  found  him  at  last.  And  I  had 
to  go  round  a  Funy  way  because  of  Linda  catch- 
ing me,  and  so  that  was  all  right.  So  you  see  it 
was  nothing  but  business  rather  a  particular  Sort. 
It  was  only  u.8  by  the  clock  when  I  came  past 
the  last  time.  I  have  put  it  all  in  my  Prayers, 
for  safety,  but  O  is  n't  he  a  wonderful  man!!! 


THE    STRIFE  89 

[The  following  opinion  of  Tim's,  writes  Her- 
bert, has  puzzled  me  a  good  deal  as  to  its  proper 
placing  in  the  chronicle.  It  is  evidently  what 
the  country  has  been  waiting  for,  but  I  do  not 
mean  that.  It  is  not  the  least  concerned  with 
Joyce,  and  barely  with  Bess,  and  only  the  cricket 
episodically.  Yet  more  perfectly  than  anything, 
even  a  contribution  I  prepared  by  the  pond, 
which  was  extraordinarily  beautiful,  it  lends  the 
romantic  atmosphere.  How  did  Tim  do  it,  with 
such  material?  Holmer  park  is  really  not  much 
to  look  at,  and  it  was  a  particularly  dirty  night. 
If  I  could  but  get  hold  of  the  "  notes  "  of  Katie's 
referred  to,  they  might  help.] 

Tim  Geoghan  to  Pel  ham. 

I  dare  not  for  my  souls  sake  tho  it  is  thirsty 
sorely  come  to  the  house,  but  you  might  send  me 
a  drop  of  it  down  here  by  the  boy. 

I  have  seen  strange  things  abroad  this  night, 
and  me  walking  simply  to  the  lodge-gate  and 
back  by  the  avenue  way.  I  am  not  to  say  what 
I  saw  at  the  end  of  it  where  the  trees  lean  over, 
but  going  down  it  was  the  Duke.  It  is  not  me 
at  this  date  can  be  mistaken  in  him  tho  he  was 
covered  closely.  I  did  not  adress  him  tho  I  had 
my  thoughts.  He  would  be  low  these  days  with 
his  London  perplexities  and  the  trouble  he  has 


90  JAMESIE 

beyond  there  and  Katie  writing  her  notes  to 
him  as  indeed  she  has  to  all  of  us  and  Gerry  her 
brother  outside  himself  with  the  Dublin  Propa- 
gand  and  him  a  loony  since  his  third  year  when 
the  cart  went  over  him  and  the  small  score  he 
made.1  Coming  back  I  saw  him  again  and  as 
misbegoten  was  he  saw  me.  And  there  I  was 
into  it  away  from  the  Poney.  I  get  sick  of  that 
Poney  from  the  pair  of  them.  Do  I  not  know 
him  I  ast  the  Duke  and  the  expression  of  his 
features  quite  different  since  last  night.2  Send 
some  cake  also  if  she  is  cuting  it.  I  will  drink 
Blakie's  health  and  he  mine  being  separated,  that 
was  the  Grand  Stand  we  made. 

T.  GEOGHAN. 

Francis's  evidence,  collected  by  me,  first-hand. 

S.H. 

"  Oh  yes,  she  came,  sir:  that  is,  she  looked  in 
on  us;  not,  you  would  say,  with  a  fixed  purpose, 
only  seeking  suggestions,  as  it  were." 

"  There  was  plenty  in  Wickford's  gunroom," 
I  said. 

"  There  were  a  good  few  guns,  sir,  —  and 
tackle  for  them  too.  A  beautiful  collection  the 

1  The  duke's  small  score.  2  The  poney's  features. 


THE    STRIFE  91 

duke  has,  with  what  he  has  given  his  brother 
added  for  his  games  out  there." 

"  For  his  game,"  I  corrected,  severely. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Francis.  "  That 's  the  large 
game.  Between  them,  you  would  say  they  could 
sweep  creation  clean  of  game  if  they  wanted  to." 

"  Don't  sneer,  Francis.    It 's  not  so  easy." 

"  I  never  tried  shooting,"  said  Francis,  rather 
wistful.  "  And  anyhow,"  he  resumed,  "  that 
night  it  was  n't  my  job.  The  opposite  was  my 
job.  So  I  darkened  in  the  billiard-room  to  be 
on  the  safe  side.  I  thought  since  it  led  through 
to  the  smaller  room,  and  his  lordship  had  left 
me  to  judge,  that  was  my  department." 

"  To  be  sure,"  I  encouraged.  "  And  Mrs. 
Monk  made  no  objection."  Francis  went  on. 

"  So  we  both  saw  Miss  Joyce's  face  appear, 
by  way  of  the  passage,  which  was  faint-lighted. 
And  her  sister  chose  to  be  quiet,  and  I  was 
naturally." 

"  No  doubt,"  I  suggested,  "  you  had  been  so 
throughout." 

"  Pretty  well,"  said  Francis.  "  Except  once, 
when  Mrs.  Monk  wished  to  meddle  with  the 
guns.  I  mentioned  that  was  against  orders." 

"  Yours?  "  I  enquired.    Francis  went  on. 


92  JAMESIE 

" l  Who 's  there?'  said  Miss  Joyce,  seeing 
the  glitter,  very  likely,  on  the  diamonds  her  sis- 
ter was  wearing.  '  Who  do  you  suppose?  '  said 
Mrs.  Monk.  For  they  were  sitting  out  that 
night  all  over  the  place,  sir.  In  the  bootroom 
I  saw  them  and  the  bathroom.  Why  not  the 
billiard-room  too?" 

"  Why  indeed?  "  I  said.  Then  I  followed  all 
his  meaning.  "  Oh,  I  see.  Joyce  thought  it  was 
Crawford,  with  Linda." 

"  Who  else  should  she  think  it  was,"  said 
Francis,  "  and  her  sister  using  that  tone.  It  was 
my  idea  Mrs.  Monk  did  it  expressly  to  bait 
her." 

"Shame!"  I  said.  Francis  was  silent. 
"  Lucky  it  was  n't  Crawford,"  I  suggested,  "  in 
the  circumstances."  Francis  agreed.  "  They 
slanged  one  another,  I  suppose."  Francis  as- 
sented, politely.  "What  did  you  do?" 

"  I  interfered,  sir,  by  means  of  a  finger.  I 
cocked  the  light  up  on  them  sudden,  a  sudden 
glare.  Strong  electricity  is  very  dis-concert- 
ing."  (Dis-concerting,  Francis  pronounces  it, 
but  he  uses  it  right.) 

"  Was  n't  your  presence  a  trifle  disconcerting 
too?" 


THE    STRIFE  93 

"  Well,  she  looked  odd,  sir.  She  looked  very 
queer.  She  could  not  at  once  get  the  rights  of 
it,  knowing  no  doubt  her  sister's  ways.  She  says 
to  me  very  haughty  after  a  moment  — '  You  can 
go.'  Exceedingly  well  she  did  it.  And  I  men- 
tioned his  lordship  had  asked  me  to  wait  for 
him  there,  while  he  just  took  a  look  round  at  the 
stable.  I  said  him,  rather  than  you,  to  be  more 
-  influential.  And  she  lost  all  that  bright 
colour,  sir,  it  was  striking.  She  felt  bad  for  the 
minute,  knew  she  had  been  done.  And  I  think  " 
—  he  hesitated  for  a  form  of  words  —  "  she  saw 
herself,  sir.  Not  very  nice  for  her,  that  was  not. 
Next  instant  she  recovered,  and  went  stepping 
out." 

"  To  have  at  Suir  on  the  staircase,"  I  said  con- 
tented. "  Thank  you,  Francis.  That  is,  I  think, 
sufficient.  Were  you  alone  when  Jamesie  came? 
I  mean,  really  alone?" 

Francis  assented.  "  I  was  allowing  myself  a 
little  smoke,"  he  said,  modestly.  "  Not  nice  to 
see,  things  like  that  between  sisters." 

"  Had  you  forgotten  Sophie? "  No  reply 
from  Francis.  I  gazed  at  him  a  minute,  recon- 
structing the  scene.  I  always  enjoy  looking  at 
him  anyhow.  "  Could  you  have  managed  her?  " 


94  JAMESIE 

I  posed  him  suddenly.  "  A  madwoman,  with  a 
loaded  gun?  "  I  put  it  strongly. 

"  Oh  yes,  sir,"  said  Francis.  "  If  you  mean 
physically." 

"  Well,  I  '11  tell  you  something,"  I  returned. 
"  You  were  about  the  only  one  of  us  that  night 
who  could." 

"  It  comes  of  regular  exercise,  sir,"  said  Fran- 
cis indulgently.  He  is  always  considerate  of  my 
defects.  He  turned  over  our  team,  visibly,  for 
a  moment.  Then  he  said  —  "  Mr.  Crawford 
could  have  managed  her  equally,  —  if  he  had 
had  time." 

Miss  Kit  chin,  faultlessly  typed  on  the  Duke's 
machine,  to  her  bosom  friend  "Dodo"  in 
London. 

I  write,  dearest,  in  unusual  peace,  both  actual 
and  inward.  Duty  done,  both  to  the  Duke  and 
otherwise,  including,  Dodo,  my  duty  to  myself. 
This  is  the  festival,  long  looked  for  (etc.).  It 
has  been  a  little  wearing  in  the  event.  .  .  .  He 
looked  in  lately,  seeking  somebody,  perhaps  a 
partner,  possibly  the  Duke.  I  smiled,  pausing 
an  instant,  ready  to  satisfy.  I  thought  he  would 
leave  again,  but  no!  Can  you  conceive  a  more 


THE    STRIFE  95 

trying  test  at  the  end  of  a  tiring  day?  He  had 
changed  from  his  white,  and  was  in  full  accou- 
trements. I  excused  him  for  wanting  to  be 
looked  at — such  a  boy!  He  came  in,  patting 
his  gloves  on.  He  spoke  to  me,  as  he  has  not 
done  directly  since  our  conversation  on  the  con- 
dition of  Ireland.  Well,  a  new  trouble  appeared 
at  once,  for  I  could  not  give  him  what  he  asked 
for.  I  could  not  speak  rashly  about  what  I  did 
not  know.  One  may  speculate,  but  that  is  not 
business.  There  is  one's  duty  to  one's  principals 
to  be  considered.  The  new  Irish  reports  he 
asked  about  I  have  not  set  eyes  on,  actually;  for 
Lord  Iveagh,  who  brought  them  over,  used  to 
be  his  brother's  secretary,  and  turned  me  out 
rather  summarily  when  they  were  discussed.  So 
I  pleaded  ignorance,  to  Steenie.  I  said,  really 
I  did  not  know. 

"  You  're  lying,"  he  said.  "  All  women  lie." 
He  looked  pink,  and  a  little  savage,  and  —  split 
the  button  off  his  glove! 

"  All  women  use  needles,"  I  said  with  a  smile. 
I  produced  my  work-things,  and  held  out  my 
hand.  I  am  foolish,  I  cannot  write  of  it.  He 
came  quite  close  while  I  mended  his  button,  and 
sat,  as  I  felt,  looking  me  over.  Closely,  too. 


96  JAMESIE 

"  Have  they  told  Janet?  "  he  said.  He  meant 
his  sister,  the  Duchess. 

"  Told  her  what?  "  I  said,  giving  the  glove 
back.  I  looked  him  in  the  eyes,  I  was  able  to. 
He  has  those  clear  blue  Scotch  eyes,  candid  — 
oh,  so  young.  After  a  minute  he  dropped  them, 
dangling  his  glove. 

"  Getting  my  buttons  sewn  on,"  he  said. 
"  I  'm  as  poor  as  a  rat  now.  That  fellow  's  done 
me.  He  's  worked  it  —  wants  my  shoes.  I  sup- 
pose you  have  heard." 

"  You  mean,"  I  said,  electrified,  "  you  are  not 
going  back  to  Ireland?  " 

He  looked  at  me  a  minute  longer,  then  he 
laughed.  "Well,  I'm  dashed,"  he  said. 
"  Wickford  does  n't  tell  you  much." 

After  that  he  heaved  himself  up  —  he  is  long 
in  the  limb,  Mr.  Steenie  —  and  went,  leaving 
me  in  deep  reflection.  He  asked  me  as  an  after- 
thought if  I  had  seen  Mrs.  Monk.  I  had  heard 
Mrs.  Monk,  using  terms  to  her  sister  in  the 
billiard-room,  —  however,  I  did  not  give  my  sex 
away.  She  is  one  of  us.  Her  sister,  Miss  Pen- 
nant, is  another,  and  does  more,  I  believe,  for  the 
Cause.  I  have  heard  Joyce  is  a  fine  speaker. 
I  should  not  have  minded  a  word  with  her  — 
but  I  could  not  catch  her  to-night. 


THE    STRIFE  97 

(Later.)  Peace  has  sunk  on  the  house,  at 
least  my  quarter  of  it  —  giddiness  reigns  else- 
where. It  is  true,  the  Duke  does  not  tell  me 
much.  Nobody  does.  Why  is  it?  The  Duke's 
relation  with  me  is  official  purely,  not  stiff  ex- 
actly, I  do  not  mean  that.  He  is  rather  an  agree- 
able person.  His  brother,  who  is  far  more  arro- 
gant, overlooks  or  looks  round  me.  Yet  his 
manners  to  women  —  other  women  —  verge  on 
the  indecorous,  as  I  have  seen  to-day.  The 
cricket-game  to-day  was  a  study  in  what,  for 
want  of  a  better  word,  one  may  call  the  lax. 
They  do  not  regard  me  as  a  woman,  Dodo. 
Why?  Have  I  lost  all  human  semblance?  But 
this  was  worse,  because,  as  Steenie  noted,  what 
they  kept  from  me  was  business.  Not  quite  my 
business,  it  is  true.  I  am  not  by  the  terms  of 
my  agreement  supposed  to  touch  the  Irish  cor- 
respondence :  the  whole  of  the  office  work  of  that 
is  done  "  beyond,"  as  his  Grace  invariably  says: 
done  across  the  water — Home  Rule.  Or  was, 
while  the  late  agent  was  alive.  The  duke  has 
taken  it  more  seriously  lately:  he  is  inclined  to 
meddle  all  round  more  than  he  did.  But  about 
Ireland  he  is  anxious,  I  happen  to  know  from 
allusions  of  hers.  From  nothing  else:  I  have 


98  JAMESIE 

not  seen  a  paper  this  last  time,  though  there  are 
stacks  in  the  house,  and  I  heard  plenty  of  gossip 
when  Steenie  came  across  before.  Are  they  los- 
ing trust  in  me?  Do  you  think  he  could  have 
thoughts  of  changing?  I  wish  I  did  not  worry 
so  easily,  but  Lord  Iveagh,  anybody,  might  have 
given  him  the  idea.  Seven  years,  I  have  been 
with  him  —  it  was  the  year  of  his  marriage.  I 
am  ageing,  of  course,  but  only  for  a  woman.  I 
am  not  so  very  much  older  than  the  Duke. 

(Later.)  I  have  had  two  visits,  unexpected. 
The  Duchess  first  appeared,  and  asked  me  if  I 
would  not  join  the  party  in  the  hall.  The  hall 
—  not  the  servants',  she  meant  the  dancing.  Of 
course  I  refused,  though  thanking  her.  She  has 
a  look  of  him.  She  was  wearing  a  picture-gown. 
She  is  one  of  ours,  as  well,  though  not  very 
deeply  interested  —  still,  I  do  respect  her.  She 
was  looking  very  tired  too.  She  said  before 
leaving  I  really  must  not  work  so  late.  Conse- 
quently, my  own,  I  must  shut  up  this,  because 
it  is  not  working.  And  I  did  not  confess  to  her 
I  was  writing  to  my  own  dear  girl.  One  so  sel- 
dom has  a  little  peace  like  this  —  the  waste  to 
spend  it  in  worrying! 

And  then  —  then  —  Nurse  came,  with  that 


THE    STRIFE  99 

sweet  Lamb  on  her  arm,  just  nodding  with  sleep, 
to  say  goodnight  to  me.  Much  too  sleepy-bye 
to  play,  though  of  course  I  gibbered  a  little.  I 
am  silly  about  them,  and  Nurse,  though  grim  in 
appearance,  knows.  She  is  really  an  excellent 
soul,  though  so  Scotch. 

"  And  show  Miss  Kitchin  what  you  have  got 
for  her,"  says  Nurse. 

"  Horse,"  says  the  Blessed,  with  a  seraphic 
beam.  "  Ailie  d'law." 

"  Rubbish,"  said  Nurse,  grabbing  it.  "  Father 
drew  them,  and  not  over-good  at  that.  What 
have  we  got  here  on  the  plate,  tell  her,  Aileen." 

They  had  brought  me  a  slice  of  the  Duchess's 
birthday  cake.  A  great  slice.  Oh  yes,  they  are 
kind  people. 

Nurse,  to  her  sister  in  the  hospital,  next  day, 
relating. 

...  So  Aileen  and  I  took  the  poor  thing  her 
cake.  She  needs,  I  thought,  something  doing 
for  her,  and  the  Duchess,  I  dare  say,  had  the 
same  idea.  Seven  years  she  has  been  here,  that 's 
as  long  as  myself,  I  came  that  year  for  Kells, 
and  yet  hooks  on  to  nothing.  It  is  a  pity,  for 
then  they  take  to  sentimentals,  you  may  be  sure. 


ioo  JAMESIE 

It  is  a  woman  she  is  chiefly  sentimental  with,  a 
woman  she  has  half-married,  you  know  the  style. 
Jokes  about  old  maids  as  such  I  do  not  care  for, 
as  I  told  Pelham.  Besides,  married  you  need 
not  be  happy,  look  at  that  Mrs.  Monk.  There  's 
a  real  beauty,  half  the  men  running  after  her, 
and  happy?  You  tell  me!  And  I  am  unmar- 
ried, and  you,  come  to  that,  and  look  at  us.  ... 
Not  much  hooking-on  needed  in  my  case.  It  is 
all  I  can  do  to  keep  my  floor  to  myself.  I  will 
not  have  it,  I  told  the  Duchess.  There  is  many 
a  house  I  know  where  flooding  the  nursery  be- 
times has  been  the  beginning  of  the  end.  I  am 
responsible  for  these  children,  I  pointed  out  to 
her.  Her  own  coming  I  do  not  mind.  I  let  her 
have  Kells  when  she  wants  him,  and  at  once,  just 
telling  him  to  wash  his  hands.  That 's  a  strong 
rule  of  mine  with  the  eldest  born.  And  the 
Duke  I  do  not  mind,  though  he  picks  out  Aileen. 
He  picked  her  out  for  exhibition  to-night.  I 
have  had  to  be  the  kinder  to  Kells  in  conse- 
quence. Lord  Iveagh  as  a  rule  waits  to  be  asked. 
I  send  him  one  of  the  children  generally.  And 
anyhow  he  is  so  seldom  here,  or  anywhere  in  the 
Christian  world,  that  it  is  exceptional.  Miss 
Kitchin  I  ask  to  tea  on  a  Sunday  occasionally, 


THE    STRIFE  101 

partly  for  the  good  of  the  boys.  For  to  teach  a 
boy  politeness  to  women  as  such,  you  would  not 
pick  out  a  pretty  kind  like  Sophie.  They  mind 
their  manners  with  me,  but  again,  that  is  differ- 
ent. And  even  so,  between  ourselves,  I  have 
work  with  Kells.  He  is  at  the  naughty  age,  got 
it  badly.  (She  goes  on  for  at  least  a  page  about 
Kells,  who  was  her  problem.) 

The  worst  of  it  is,  she 1  is  sentimental  about 
everything,  about  titles  and  the  military  too. 
She  gave  us  a  coloured  picture,  —  "  Forward 
the  Light  Brigade,"  which  I  have  never  put  up. 
I  do  not  care  for  such  things  before  the  chil- 
dren's eyes,  and  besides,  there  is  a  horse  rolling 
over  that  would  have  done  for  Aileen.  Their 
grandfather  in  uniform  is  on  the  nursery  wall. 
I  understand  he  was  a  good  officer.  Yet  I  dare- 
say that  is  a  weakness  on  my  own  part,  since  it 
was  printed  in  Edinburgh,  and  Kirkcudbright 
is  in  his  titles  beneath.  Kells  is  said  to  be  like 
him  and  his  mother  too,  but  T  can't  see  it.  He 
is  that  side  clear  enough,  and  he  will  be  tall 
with  his  long  feet.  But  I  should  be  happier  if 
he  did  not  first  disobey,  as  to-night,  and  then  be 
afraid  of  the  consequences.  Afraid  is  the  word. 

1  Miss  Kitchin. 


102  JAMESIE 

My  worst  fear  now  is  that  he  should  get  to  hang- 
ing too  much  about  his  uncle  Crawford.  (More 
about  Kells,  and  Steenie,  Nurse  was  full  of  it.) 
However,  sufficient  to  the  day.  So  long  as  he 
and  Lord  Iveagh  do  not  get  across  one  another, 
and  fatally.  I  told  Kells'  father  last  night  his 
vanity  would  never  survive  a  whipping,  once  for 
all  I  said  it,  for  it  is  a  thing  I  have  at  heart.  I 
wish  to  guard  against  contingencies,  for  Kells 
is  naughtier  at  once  when  his  uncle  comes.  He 
has  that  little  gleam  in  his  eyes,  cunning,  that 
I  hate  to  see.  (More  about  Kells.)  Never,  I 
assured  the  Duke,  by  all  my  experience,  whip  a 
conceited  child.  It  is  worse  than  cruelty,  it  is 
useless.  That  should  appeal  to  Lord  Iveagh  at 
least. 

My  saying  this  conversation  occurred  last 
night  will  show  you.  Being  so  completely  out 
of  things,  here  in  my  own  department,  I  had 
no  less  than  three  visits  from  his  Grace.  How 
is  that?  —  though  two  were  short  ones.  At  least 
he  apologised  for  keeping  the  children  so  late, 
all  very  well,  but  he  does  not  have  them  cross 
to-morrow.  There  will  be  snarling,  well  I 
know.  .  .  .  Well,  and  the  second  time,  who  do 
you  suppose  came  with  him?  Now  I  let  you 


THE    STRIFE  103 

guess.  Anyone  else  I  should  have  been  pre- 
pared for  better,  his  Grace's  mother  even,  for 
she  comes  at  times.  It  took  me  quite  aback.  I 
got  up,  dropping  down  all  my  stockings,  which 
his  Grace  picked  up.  "  We  are  breaking  every 
law  of  the  land,"  he  says  to  me  in  his  humorous 
style.  "  She  is  here  on  sufferance,  under  my  seal. 
Just  show  her  the  kids  and  content  her.  Ten 
minutes.  Ten  minutes  by  my  watch,  Bess."  He 
showed  it  her,  and  he  went. 

She  took  her  cloak  off  when  he  had  gone, 
being  wettish.  I  saw  the  case  very  easily.  My 
eyes,  in  this  world,  are  not  absolutely  closed. 
And  I  have  had  the  special  chance  of  seeing 
Mr.  Crawford's  manners  with  Jamesie.  He  dis- 
likes that  child. 

"  I  never  answered  your  letter,  Nurse,"  she 
said.  Well  —  you  remember?  It  put  me  out, 
to  remember  how  I  had  written  it,  having  seen 
what  I  have  seen  in  the  household  since.  I  just 
said  some  common  thing  and  went  on  darning. 
She  is  a  simple  lady,  and  never  heeds  that.  She 
makes  Jamesie's  clothes  to  the  last  button,  and 
though  on  the  verge  of  the  artistic,  they  are 
properly  made.  I  just  paused  long  enough  to 
spread  the  cloak  out  to  dry  it:  I  had  a  bit  of  a 


104  JAMESIE 

fire,  Jamesie  having  been  wet  equally.  His  bits 
of  things  were  still  hanging  there,  over  the  high 
guard.1  You  may  be  sure  she  saw  them. 

"  I  'm  disobeying,"  she  said,  half-laughing, 
and  kneeling  by  the  guard  she  bent  her  head 
down  on  her  hands,  her  elbows  on  the  cloak. 
Oh,  talk  to  me  of  Mrs.  Monk!  And  —  "  How 
'is  he?  "  she  said. 

Well,  I  should  naturally  have  thought  she 
meant  the  child.  Would  n't  I?  You  might  as 
well  ask,  do  I  know  married  people.  I  have  had 
enough  of  them.  That  is  the  love  of  a  life-time, 
though  both  are  very  secret.  Why,  apart  from 
all  else,  you  give  me  a  child  at  close  quarters,  as 
I  have  had  Jamesie  time  and  again  when  his 
parents  have  been  travelling,  and  I  will  answer 
to  you  for  the  terms  the  parents  are  on.  I  prom- 
ise to. 

So  I  said  what  I  could,  though  he  had  not 
been  up  all  day  as  it  happened.  He  has  had 
enough  to  do,  between  ourselves,  in  his  brother's 
household,  what  with  the  party,  and  the  poney, 
and  this  Irish  do  on  top  which  is  bothering  both 
of  them,  it  was  hardly  likely  we  should  look 
upon  him. 

1  Defence  against  fire,  peculiar  to  nurseries. 


THE    STRIFE  105 

However,  I  gave  her  what  I  could. 

But  —  "  What  does  he  look  like?  "  she  pressed 
me,  her  brows  lifted,  laughing  at  herself.  So 
I  said  soberly  he  looked  as  usual.  It  is  true  he 
has  had  these  fevers  before  now.  But  there  - 
no  avoiding  insincerity  with  such  subjects! 
"  Has  he  been  out  in  the  rain?  "  she  says. 

She  touched  Jamesie's  knickers  as  she  said  it, 
but  still  she  did  not  mean  him.  So  there  I  was 
again,  for  Tim  said  his  lordship  had  been  twice 
to  the  stable,  and  an  eye  upon  it  all  the  evening. 
That  is  how  my  lord  Kells  was  caught  out.  So 
I  was  just  giving  her  a  formal  answer,  round- 
about as  it  were,  when  there  was  a  sound  behind 
us.  I  might  have  guessed  it!  It  is  one  of  the 
miracles  of  this  world,  I  say  it  in  all  reverence, 
a  mother's  voice.  And  yet  she  had  been  talking 
so  quietly,  of  intention,  not  to  wake  them.  How- 
ever, there  we  were.  The  child  was  on  her, 
speechless. 

I  was  going  to  leave  her,  making  an  excuse 
to  go  to  Aileen,  but  she  would  not  have  it.  She 
told  me  across  him  that  she  had  no  time.  It  was 
not  easy  for  her  to  move,  and  that  strong  child's 
arms  all  about  her,  but  she  said  in  his  ear, 
through  his  hair  which  was  anyhow  out  of  bed 


io6  JAMESIE 

—  "I  have  got  to  escape"  Making  a  secret  of 
it,  she  knows  them.  And  sure  enough,  he  half 
let  her  go  at  once.  You  should  have  seen  his 
face,  glorious,  while  she  explained,  and  even 
showed  him  a  letter.  Her  husband's  last  letter, 
with  directions.  Oh,  she  knows! 

"  Mother,  how  awful  —  O  how  awful, 
Mother," — that  was  Jamesie.  And  he  wrapped 
her  cloak  all  about  her,  half  earnest,  half  play- 
ing at  it,  even  her  face!  You  know  the  only 
child.  Getting  on  a  chair  to  finish  it,  the  pic- 
ture they  made,  and  her  fine  shape.  If  I  have 
a  hard  and  fast  rule  in  this  life,  it  is  to  make 
no  difference  for  personal  appearance,  but  there 
are  times  when  Jamesie  does  me.  It  is  all  I 
can  do  not  to  look  at  him,  to  the  disadvantage 
of  Kells. 

The  duke  fetched  her,  on  time  as  he  said, 
looking  worried.  "  Come  along,"  he  said,  rather 
curt.  I  gathered  somehow  or  other,  Lord 
Iveagh  had  been  in  the  right  of  it,  forbidding 
her.  He  did  not  want  her  complicating.  .  .  . 

[This  superb  witness,  notes  Herbert,  was  as 
exact  as  you  would  expect  of  her  origins.  Like 
Nelson  or  George  Washington,  she  could  not 
lie.  "  Complicating  "  was  exactly  what  Bess 


THE   STRIFE  107 

did:  precisely.  She  might  have  done  worse,  it 
is  true,  had  she  stayed  longer.  She  stayed  a 
quarter  of  an  hour,  by  Francis's  watch,  and 
passed  twice  through  the  back  premises  of  the 
house.  We  did  not,  however,  entertain  her  un- 
aware, not  quite  unaware  to  Steenie.  Steenie, 
who  had  done  nothing  at  all,  all  the  evening, 
while  we  had  been  plotting  and  pettifogging, 
feverishly,  shifted.  Everybody  saw  the  altera- 
tion occur,  for  he  is  not  a  type  that  changes 
much.  Besides,  he  had  been  so  saintly. 

He  discovered  she  had  been  in  the  house, 
heaven  knows  how,  or  the  devil  possibly,  and 
he  attacked  Francis.  This  again  I  can  offer  first 
hand. 

"  Seen  a  woman  come  past  here? "  said 
Steenie.  Francis  said  he  had  seen  several.  "  A 
woman  in  a  blue  cloak."  Francis  allowed  he 
had  noted  one  cross  the  corner  of  the  billiard- 
room  passage.  I  gather  he  was  a  little  bored, 
watching  round  about  the  gun-room,  by  the  way 
he  admitted,  on  duty,  Steenie's  curiosity.  Linda 
had  done  her  best  for  him,  but  he  was  bored. 

"  Who  was  with  her?  "  said  Steenie.  Francis 
said  it  looked  like  the  Duke.  But  the  gent  — 
gentleman,  I  beg  his  pardon  —  had  a  wrap  on, 
because  he  had  been  taking  the  air,  in  the  park. 

"  You  're  lying,"  said  Steenie,  as  usual.  "  It 
was  the  other  one.  You  don't  take  me  in." 

Francis  took  it  easy.    He  told  me  Mr.  Craw- 


io8  JAMESIE 

ford  did  not  like  him,  since  the  cricket.  This 
interested  me,  because  I  had  not  noticed  any 
jealousy  in  Steenie,  at  the  time.  But  thinking 
the  scores  over,  it  seems  very  probable. 

Francis  told  him  the  party  with  the  lady  had 
spurs.  This  was  true  —  Wickford  had  his  cav- 
alry uniform :  one  of  his  uniforms  —  I  forget 
how  many  dukes  have  by  nature.  Anyhow,  he 
was  wearing  it,  and  wearing  it  well. 

"  The  other  has  spurs,  you  ass,"  said  Steenie. 
This  was  also  true,  because  Suir,  assailed  by  the 
children,  had  trumped  up,  with  Pelham's  skilled 
assistance,  a  kind  of  gaucho-rig:  the  kind  he 
wore  when  the  horse  spread  him  on  the  Pampas, 
and  refrained  from  kicking  him  afterwards. 
Suir  had  had  to  stand  a  good  many  allusions  to 
that  equine  act  of  charity  during  the  evening  — 
even  from  Kells. 

This  was  all  Francis  told  me  of  the  interview 
and  its  subject.  Except  that  he  saw  the  lady  in 
the  cloak  come  past  again,  certainly  in  the 
Duke's  escort,  fifteen  minutes  afterwards,  and 
that  he  did  not  inform  Mr.  Crawford.  Conse- 
quently, friend  Stephen  continued  looking  for 
the  angel,  which  was  a  pity  for  Joyce.] 

DEAR  Sum, 

Joyce  did  come  to  the  pond,  but  I  hardly 
think  by  her  demeanour  she  would  have  done 


THE    STRIFE  109 

it.  For  one  thing,  she  is  a  capital  swimmer,  as 
good  as  Linda.  For  another,  she  had  a  very  nice 
frock  on,  which  would  have  been  spoiled.  Fur- 
ther, she  was,  when  she  noticed  and  spoke  to 
me,  comparatively  sane.  She  is  an  excellent 
actress,  anyhow;  but  that  you  would  know  from 
her  music.  She  strolled  twice  round,  smoking, 
before  she  saw  me  sitting  in  my  poet's  corner, 
beside  a  blasted  birch-tree,  dreaming  on  the 
smudgy  skies.  (I  cannot  call  them  starry.) 
When  she  marked  me  she  laughed,  loud  but  not 
inordinately,  and  said  what  fools  we  all  were. 
That  was  natural.  I  thought  I  would  treat  her 
straight,  being  in  the  void  as  to  the  proper  treat- 
ment. I  said,  owing  to  her  games,  I  had  had 
a  beastly  evening,  and  you  had  had  worse.  She 
seemed  quite  interested,  and  far  from  displeased, 
by  the  picture.  She  said  she  thought  she  had 
given  you  rather  a  time  of  it,  but  she  did  not 
seem  perfectly  sure.  I  thanked  my  stars,  and 
your  special  genius,  because  she  longed  to  be 
sure.  She  simply  longed  to.  I  said,  did  she 
know  she  had  kept  you  from  Bess,  and  she 
laughed  louder  than  ever.  I  rose  and  shut  off 
the  conversation,  for  fear,  blank  fear,  of  the 
more  she  intended  to  say. 


i  io  JAMESIE 

They  know  too  much  and  too  little,  those  girls. 
It  is,  for  the  kind  of  fool  I  am,  a  soul-shrinking 
combination.  I  know  if  I  had  the  pluck  to  mas- 
ter, and  to  marry  her,  she  would  make  me  quite 
a  decent  wife:  and  a  pretty,  and  a  capable,  and 
I  should  like  to  make  up  to  her  too.  But  I  can't, 
I  can't  really.  She  must  join  the  majority. 

["Who  ever  asked  you?"  was  Iveagh's  an- 
swer to  this,  not  unnatural,  when  he  next  came 
across  me,  which  was  in  some  rather  public 
place,  say  a  Promenade  Concert,  or  the  Picca- 
dilly entrance  to  the  Tube.  I  had  by  that  time, 
of  course,  regretted  my  outburst  profoundly. 
But  he  never  let  me  forget  it  —  nor  did  Wick- 
ford.  Bother  (as  Steenie  was  given  to  ejaculat- 
ing) those  Suirs!] 

M.  du  Frettay,  —  into  the  middle  of  all  this. 

Why  the  four  thousand  devils  do  you  not 
'write? 

The  same,  peacefully,  some  weeks  later. 

So  that  was  all.  Ah  well,  mon  cher,  let  me 
inform  you,  your  sister-in-law  wastes  her  pains. 
You  say  Miss  Joyce  is  musician.  Good.  And 
she  goes  to  Germany.  Good.  She  falls  into  the 


THE   STRIFE  in 

arms  of  the  very  sisterhood  best  fitted  to  undo 
your  work.  Why,  my  poor  friend,  that  is  the 
very  place  for  herl  She  will  be  cherished  there, 
her  disease  also,  since  they  cultivate  it  for  the 
so-called  glory  of  their  men.  Down,  then,  with 
their  men's  so-called  glory?  Perfectly,  very 
good,  I  range  myself  beside  you;  but  note,  that 
by  destroying  that  high-coloured  and  whooping 
hysteria,  you  will  destroy  the  essential  elements 
of  their  art  as  well.  And  no  inconvenience  in 
that,  you  tell  me?  [He  goes  on  for  several  pages 
answering  remarks  his  correspondent  could 
never  have  made.  Then  — ]  It  is  truly  unfor- 
tunate that  while  I  was  with  you  I  did  not 
happen  to  meet  her.  So  many  interesting  types 
I  noted  in  the  corners  of  your  London,  but  I  was 
too  soon  for  that.  In  the  arms  of  the  immacu- 
late policeman  it  has  lately  perfected  itself,  and 
I  absent,  —  I  absent,  Iveagh!  And  twenty-four, 
such  that  she  would  then  have  been  seventeen. 
Seventeen,  unspoiled,  pretty,  say  you?  ...  Eh 
bien,  when  are  you  coming  across? 


ii2  JAMESIE 

Suir,  to    Trix  Adler.     Delivered  by  Pelham, 
after  his  departure  the  following  day. 

I  wanted  to  mention  I  was  aware  how  you 
backed  me  last  night,  though  saying  nothing. 
You  were  with  us,  not  against,  and  that  was 
much.  A  woman  against  last  night,  with  the 
state  she  was,  and  Linda,  more  shame  to  her, 
spurring  her,  might  just  have  spoiled  the  play. 
You  have  that  same  thing  beyond,1  but  it  is  bet- 
ter managed.  Anyhow  there  the  men  go  round. 
You  will  excuse  this,  and  me  cutting  your  three 
dances.  Next  time,  and  granted  my  mother  not 
looking,  I  will  make  it  up. 

The  Dowager,  to  Lady  Iveagh. 

MY  DEAR  ELIZABETH, 

Our  party  is  thinning  now,  and  I  have  a 
moment.  I  have  been  fully  engaged  helping 
Janet  with  her  houseful,  as  you  will  have 
guessed.  I  may  say  you  were  missed,  last  night: 
Janet's  brother,  Herbert,  and  the  Adler  girl,  all 
asked  after  you  at  different  junctures,  wishing 
you  were  there.  I  am  bringing  James  back  with 
me  to-morrow,  since  Iveagh  did  not  seem  to 

1  America. 


THE    STRIFE  113 

want  him.  At  present  he  is  engaged  in  writing 
a  French  letter  opposite  me  very  busily.  He 
has  the  big  dictionary  and  has  not  once  applied 
for  a  word.  He  is  almost  too  independent.  I 
will  look  at  the  letter  before  it  goes. 

He  and  Kells  were  both  rather  troublesome 
last  night,  overdone  with  all  the  excitement 
probably.  However,  Wickford's  treatment  of 
them  showed  anything  but  favouritism:  indeed 
the  favour  was  mostly  in  James'  direction.  No 
doubt  he  expected  James'  father  to  step  in,  but 
Iveagh  had  too  many  other  interests,  as  was 
evident.  Consequently  Kells  nearly  broke  his 
heart  in  solitude,  and  is  poorly  to-day,  and 
James  is  particularly  confident  and  contented- 
looking.  Do  you  not  think  you  had  better  cut 
his  hair?  He  grows  such  a  big  boy,  and  is  not 
really  an  effeminate  type.  His  trick  of  setting 
the  corners  of  his  mouth  reminds  me  often  of  his 
grandfather.  If  you  can  meet  me  to-morrow 
early,  say  two-fifteen,  at  Matching  and  Sel- 
body's,  I  should  be  glad  of  your  help  with  those 
tiresome  curtains.  I  must  get  that  done. 

Yours  affectionately, 
GERTRUDE  W. 


ii4  JAMESIE 

Jamesie  to  Denise. 

CHERE  DENISE, 

C'etait  le  plus  grand  succes!  Et  ce  finissait 
avec  le  succes  plus  grand  que  tous,  qui  est  Secret. 
Kells  n'est  pas  bien  aujourd'  hui.  Ou  bien  c'est 
le  soleil  ou  bien  le  the,  mais  nous  pensons  le 
dernier.  La  maladie  est  une  chose  terible.  J'ai 
vu  Sophie  et  Francis  dans  le  pare,  vous  raplez? 
Le  Frangais-anglais  Manage.  II  faisait  un 
Siecle  hier,  et  Madcap  aussi.  156  pas  sortez,1 
figurez!  Father  n'est  pas  Colere  avec  moi,  nous 
avons  converse  beaucoup  apres  dejeuner  dans  la 
librairie.  II  a  me  donne  le  gros  Dictionnaire, 
pas  a  ennuyer  Grandmother.  II  n'est  pas 
malade  a  mentioner.2  II  dit  que  je  informe  a 
votre  oncle  qu'il  va  ecrire  un  de  ces  jours.  Avec 
notre  cher  amour  et  compliment. 

JAMESIE. 

1  Not  out.  '  "To  mention,"  characteristic  Suirism. 


PART  II 

THE   TRUCE 


THE   TRUCE 

The  Duchess,  to  her  eldest  brother  in  the 
Guards. 

Goodbye,  old  boy,  and  good  luck  to  you. 
Kells  and  I  shall  see  you  ride  past.  Keep  an  eye 
on  Steenie  if  it  is  done,  but  I  do  not  ask  the  im- 
possible. I  remember  how  it  was  at  Eton,  in  the 
old  days.  Write  when  you  can,  Cardie. 

YOUR  SISTER  J. 

Nurse,  to  her  sister  in  the  hospital. 

Goodbye,  and  good  luck  to  you.  No  chance 
of  the  station  at  that  hour,  I  have  my  work  to  do. 
It  won't  be  such  a  bad  climate,  Lord  Iveagh 
says,  he  showed  them  in  the  big  atlas  this  even- 
ing, so  interested,  bless  them,  in  everything  con- 
cerning me!  Somehow  it  got  me  by  the  throat, 
seeing  Aileen.  As  if  that  can  know  what  it  is, 
or  what  you  will  soon  be  seeing.  Write  when 
you  can,  Maggy. 

YOUR  SISTER  C. 


ii8  JAMESIE 

Sophie,  to  her  brother  in  the  "  genie." 

Au  revoir,  mon  petit,  et  que  le  bon  Dicu  te 
garde.  Aie  soin  d'ecrire  regulierement  a  ta 
mere,  elle  en  mourra  autrement.  Les  sapeurs 
sont  tout  de  meme  moins  exposes,  —  1'Angle- 
terre  est  avec  nous,  —  et  c'est  pour  la  sainte 
Patrie. 

TA  SCEUR  S. 

The  Dowager,  to  the  Canon. 

Goodbye  for  the  present,  Lionel,  and  good 
luck  to  you.  You  are  doing  no  more  than  I 
expected  you  to  do.  We  may  have  doubts  of 
our  other  allies,  but  there  is  no  doubt  God  is 
with  us,  since  this  business  of  Belgium.  Write 
me  to  Boulogne  when  I  tell  you. 

YOUR  SISTER  G. 

St.  John  Herbert,  to  the  Duke. 

Goodbye,  Wick,  but  I  shan't  waste  tears  on 
you :  and  I  must  say  you  are  playing  Iveagh  a 
low-down  trick.  Get  him  something  good  at 
the  end  of  it,  or  I  really  shall  believe  you  are  the 
ornamental  one  of  the  family.  I  doubt  if  you 
will  get  much  riding  at  this  rate,  unless  it  is  rid- 


THE   TRUCE  119 

ing  backwards.     Still,  here  's  luck  to  the  out- 
come.   Yours  ever 

S.  H. 

The  Duke,  to  M.  du  Frettay,  Capitaine,  Pilote 
et  Chef  d'Escadrille. 

Good  luck,  Gabriel,  you  '11  be  in  front  of  us ; 
and  over  us,  won't  you?  —  and  anyhow,  at  our 
side.  Perhaps  the  conception  is  Irish,  but  you 
will  appreciate  the  feeling  intended.  I  am 
playing  my  brother  a  trick  you  won't  care  for, 
leaving  him  in  my  shoes  beyond,1  but  I  think, 
with  a  historical  effort,  you  will  follow  the 
game.  There  is  simply  no  one  else  I  could  de- 
pend on  for  such  a  purpose.  You  'd  have 
laughed  the  way  I  went  at  him,  quite  lost  my 
dignity,  and  him  looking  sidelong  and  sickened, 
you  know  the  style.  It  is  only  temporary,  till 
the  backwash  from  the  enlisting  is  over,  and  the 
country  quieted,  so  I  soothed  him;  and  promised 
him  any  commission  he  likes  in  earth  or  heaven 
at  the  end.  He  has  taken  it  on  him,  taken  it  off 
me  as  usual,  and  my  bits  of  brothers-in-law 
despising  him  for  it,  but  you  will  not.  Give  him 
a  letter  or  two  in  his  loneliness,  will  you  not? 

1  Ireland. 


120  JAMESIE 

You  may  be  sure  his  thoughts  will  be  with 
France. 

Pelham  to  Francis. 

So  long,  my  boy,  and  good  luck  to  you.  I 
wish  to  the  Lord  I  could  come  along.  Losing 
the  duke  I  am  stranded,  and  yet  where  is  the 
good  of  my  enlisting?  So  long,  and  don't  worry 
about  this  end.  I  '11  keep  an  eye  on  Sophie. 

Madeleine's  schoolmistress,  to  Madeleine. 

Very  well,  my  dear,  your  mother  is  the  best 
judge.  If  Miss  Adler's  ambulance  has  a  va- 
cancy, and  you  are  such  a  practised  driver,  I  do 
not  think  a  last  examination  should  stand  in  the 
way.  You  are  very  young,  but  many  girls  over 
age  look  younger,  and  you  have,  as  we  know  on 
the  field,  a  steady  head.  Why  not  you,  as  much 
as  the  boys  on  the  battle-ships?  The  cricket  will 
miss  you  next  year,  and  your  friends,  and  I  shall 
miss  you  too.  I  should  have  liked,  for  the 
school's  sake,  to  keep  you  longer:  but  the  Red 
Cross,  the  real  one,  Spenser's,  stands  first. 

CHARLOTTE  NAPIER. 


THE   TRUCE  121 

Joyce's  professor,  at  Munich,  to  Joyce. 

Auf  Wiedersehen,  liebes  Fraulein,  and  may 
the  God  of  our  common  art  have  you  in  his 
charge.  I  have  arranged  I  hope  that  you  get  to 
Switzerland  without  annoyance,  fortunately  it  is 
not  far.  Go  quickly,  take  nothing,  and  lest 
money  lacks,  pocket  this.  May  the  hour  not  be 
far  when  you  can  repay  me,  but  for  the  meeting's 
sake  only,  for  between  us  nothing  is  owed  or  re- 
paid. I  charge  you  with  no  letters,  it  is  danger- 
ous. If  you  meet  in  England  —  or  — ,  in  Paris 
—  or  — ,  grasp  their  hand  for  me  quietly.  I 
have  travelled  much,  seen  much,  and  am  ageing, 
but  not  blindly.  Music,  which  is  unity,  which  is 
universality,  lies  stricken:  but  she  will  awake 
again. 

F.  A.  REUSS. 

St.  John  Herbert,  to  the  world  at  large. 

To  this  fine  echo  of  farewells,  amid  a  sea  of 
work,  and  swirl  of  feeling  did  the  strife  repre- 
sented by  the  Cricket  Match  come  to  an  end. 
Another  strife,  as  ancient  if  less  inevitable,  swept 
it  off  the  scene.  Less  inevitable,  all  we  thinkers 
reflected  with  shame :  not  the  fighters  —  Janet's 
brother  Cardew  flung  his  cap  to  the  ceiling  when 


122  JAMESIE 

he  heard  the  Germans  had  crossed  the  French 
frontier.  Cardew  would  not  have  prevented  a 
European  War  even  if  he  could,  and  I  hereby 
whisper  to  the  world  he  could  not.  He  lacked  a 
few  of  the  attributes  reckoned  essential  to  a  pure 
diplomacy. 

But  Cardew,  though  I  shall  quote  him  occa- 
sionally, is  not  one  of  our  actors.  Of  these,  as 
in  the  cricket  match,  let  the  ladies  stand  first. 
The  Dowager  Duchess  vanished  in  a  fanfaron- 
hade  to  France,  with  a  small  hospital  completely 
equipped.  She  ordered  Janet  to  come  with  her : 
but  Janet,  having  seen  the  whole  of  her  own 
family,  husband  and  three  brothers,  off  to  the 
wars,  refused  point-blank  and  stuck  to  her  chil- 
dren. Nor  would  Janet  let  Miss  Kitchin  go, 
she  said  she  wanted  her  for  Belgium.  Bess,  on 
the  other  hand,  was  inevitably  swept  in  by  the 
high  command,  though  she  was  kindly  allowed 
to  live  in  London,  holding  there  the  post  of 
provisioner  to  the  Duchess's  hospital  of  anything 
she  happened  to  need  for  the  next  nine  months: 
an  appallingly  laborious,  and  intensely  ungrate- 
ful task.  I  speak  with  feeling,  since  I  entirely 
lost  Bess's  society,  which  I  had  counted  on  of 
course  to  console  me  for  Francis.  But  her  Grace 


THE   TRUCE  123 

the  Dowager  did  not  regard  me.  Bess  had  a 
fund  at  the  bank  to  manage  economically,  sev- 
eral account-books  (which  Jamesie  ruled  for 
her)  and  lived  under  a  storm  of  telegrams.  She 
"did  "  for  the  dowager,  as  her  husband  in  Ire- 
land "  did  "  for  the  duke,  and  by  their  doing 
they  were  once  more  separated. 

But  what  was  that?  Everybody  was  sepa- 
rated. The  customarily  large  English  family 
broke  into  fragments,  just  as  the  customarily 
small  French  family  crept  close  and  crystallised. 
English  girls  spread  fan-like  over  Europe,  in 
the  wake  of  the  men.  American  girls,  passion- 
ately curious,  with  all  their  sympathy,  needing 
as  much  as  any  modern  boy  to  "  live  the  war," 
followed  and  financed  them.  Trix,  clad  in  a 
brown  leather  jerkin  and  gaiters  chiefly,  drove 
an  ambulance-car  "  around "  Paris  in  great 
style :  and  moved  on,  as  soon  as  she  could,  south- 
eastward. Madeleine,  bold  and  young  —  bold 
because  young  —  went  behind  her.  Neither  of 
these  two  girls,  both  very  pretty,  and  moneyed  as 
was  evident,  received  either  an  insult  or  an  offer 
of  marriage  during  the  period  of  their  ministra- 
tion. I  lay  it  to  manner,  see  the  Cricket  Match. 
Whereas  Joyce —  I  prefer  to  stick  to  documents, 
in  the  case  of  Joyce. 


i24  JAMESIE 

I  insert  here  a  conversation,  noted  during 
those  winter  months,  on  an  occasion  when  a  cer- 
tain number  of  our  scattered  society  were  col- 
lected and  talking  commonplaces.  We  all  spoke 
platitudes  and  repeated  one  another,  if  you  re- 
member, the  first  winter  of  the  war. 

WlCKFORD.  "  You  need  n't  be  anxious  about 
Joyce,  my  wife  says  the  war  will  cure  her.  She 
is  exactly  the  kind  of  case  the  war  will  cure." 

BESS.    "  Why  should  it?  " 

THE  DOWAGER.  "  What  did  you  say,  Eliza- 
beth?" 

SELF.    "  She  said,  why  should  it?  " 

WlCKFORD.  "  Well  —  er  —  I  suppose  my 
wife  meant  —  cataclysms  of  the  kind  entail  an 
—  er  —  volume  of  distress,  world-wide,  rather 
lifts  you  out  of  your  personal  woes." 

CANON  OXBOROUGH.  "  Excellent,  my  boy. 
Indeed  —  ah  —  exactly." 

SELF.    "Well  now,  Bess!" 

BESS  (blushing).  "Janet  has  a  high  idea  of 
human  nature.  I  should  have  thought  it  simply 
added  to  them.  I  mean,  troubles  which  are  of 
the  nature  of  grievances  —  permanent  injustice 
-  are  not  so  easily  made  away  with.  They 
might  of  course  be  swamped  for  a  time,  by  sym- 
pathy or  excitement.  Is  that  what  Janet 
meant?  " 


THE   TRUCE  125 

WlCKFORD.    "  Oh,  talk  to  her." 

THE  DOWAGER.  "  Well,  at  least  the  girl  came 
back  from  Germany  in  a  chastened  frame  of 
mind,  and  has  set  to  work  with  a  will.  One  may 
say  with  a  passion  —  " 

WlCKFORD.  "  Don't,  Mother.  Leave  it  at 
that." 

CANON  OXBOROUGH.  "  Eh,  Wickford.  How 
so?" 

SELF  (Wickford  stuck).  "Leave  it  at  will, 
Duchess,  that 's  all.  Passion  lugs  us  back  into 
the  personal  again.  (To  Wickford.)  Your 
wife  thinks  Miss  Pennant  cured,  then?  " 

WlCKFORD  (confidential).  "Oh  well,  Linda 
said  she  was  deep  in  with  a  doctor  at  the  Cottage 
Hospital." 

THE  DOWAGER.  "  Wickford,  I  am  really  as- 
tonished you  repeat  such  things  —  and  on  such 
authority.  Linda  indeed!  " 

BESS  (earnestly).    "  I  hope  it's  true." 

EVERYBODY.    "  Hullo,  Bess! " 

SELF  (Bess  stuck) .  "  I  think  she  means  it 's  a 
more  natural  way  to  cure  her,  don't  you,  Bess? 
I  own,  to  me,  Janet's  way  smacks  of  sentiment. 
It  seems  a  trifle  —  well  —  cumbrous,  to  evoke  a 
world-war  for  the  purpose.  You  see,  the  next 
step  is  to  call  the  cataclysm  providential,  a 
crowning  mercy  —  because  it  might  cure  people 
like  Joyce." 

CANON   OXBOROUGH.     "Ahem.     There   is 


ia6  JAMESIE 

a   good   side,    one   must  not   forget,    even   to 
such  —  " 

SELF  and  WlCKFORD  (rudely  interrupting). 
"There!" 

To  proceed  to  the  men,  Francis  and  Tim  en- 
listed simultaneously.  Steenie  took  a  commis- 
sion in  his  brother's  regiment.  Shere  went  in 
and  stayed  in,  unlike  the  cricket-match.  Self 
scored  a  duck,  that  is  to  say  was  rejected  with 
contumely.  Wickford  fattened  rapidly  (Janet 
told  me)  in  the  nice  front  seat  his  fortunes 
granted  him.  Iveagh  grew  thin  meanwhile  in 
his  western  retreat :  not  so  much  that  he  wanted 
food  as  that  he  was  out  of  focus.  The  fashion 
of  the  times  failed,  for  the  first  ten  months,  to 
take  him  in. 

The  only  people  who  were  decent  to  him  were 
myself,  I  flatter  myself,  and  Trixie.  Trix 
especially  was  a  brick,  because  female  opinion 
was  by  no  means  indifferent  to  Iveagh.  Mad- 
ame du  Frettay  let  him  go,  undiscouraged  by 
Gabriel.  Janet,  whom  he  particularly  admired, 
practically  deserted  him.  She  understood  the 
case,  through  her  husband's  agency,  only,  from 
the  minute  when  she  had  classed  him,  she  left 
him  out.  Janet  came  of  an  old  military  stock, 
and  the  Great  March  caught  her  inevitably, 


THE   TRUCE  127 

swept  her  along.  She  carried  Kells  with  her, 
because,  child  as  he  was,  her  influence  was 
strongly  on  him,  and  her  nature  was  his.  She 
never  once  wrote  to  Iveagh,  fond  though  she 
really  was  of  him,  during  those  nine  months. 
He  was  thus  isolated  from  his  London  world, 
for  Bess  was  barely  in  it:  and  Bess,  like  himself, 
was  working  night  and  day. 

Of  his  work  I  am  not  going  to  speak  here, 
beyond  a  hint  or  two  as  foundation.  Such  work 
as  he  undertook,  as  a  rule,  speaks  in  events,  not 
volumes.  The  estate  was  in  one  of  the  nonde- 
script counties,  politically,  and  near  the  coast. 
His  brother  was  a  firmly-convinced  loyalist- 
unionist,  and  he,  of  course,  represented  his 
brother.  He  had  no  choice,  often,  but  to  be 
silent  on  his  own  sentiments.  He  learnt  silence 
—  not  that  he  needed  to  learn  it,  having  lived 
the  solitary  life;  and  yet  that  supremely  sensitive 
people  knew  his  sympathy  perfectly:  battering 
him  on  every  side,  I  learnt  from  Byrne,  to  get 
it,  which  is  their  way.  Byrne,  a  first-class  wit- 
ness on  the  spot,  whom  I  shall  quote  later,  said 
he  was  the  more  loved  for  that  little  gloomy 
manner  of  his,  which  was  moreover  part  of  their 
memories;  and  that  Iveagh,  on  his  side,  was  the 


128  JAMESIE 

crosser  for  their  cajolery,  which  I  well  believe. 
I  pictured  him  often,  raging  in  inaction,  as  the 
accounts  of  the  retreat  came  in  —  the  "  racket," 
as  he  and  Wickford  always  called  it:  that  awful 
and  affecting  period  when  two  great  forces 
stooped  to  conquer;  as  France,  the  land  of 
friendship,  du  Frettay's  France,  was  steadily 
engulfed.  I  wondered,  often,  that  his  best 
friend  should  understand  him  so  little:  that 
Janet,  his  wife's  best  friend,  should  do  so.  As 
for  Joyce  —  But  I  prefer  to  stick  to  documents, 
in  the  case  of  Joyce. 

Steenie  fell  gloriously  at  Neuve  Chapelle. 
There  was  no  doubt  about  the  glory.  See  the 
following: 

The  Earl  of  Kirkcudbright,  to  the  Duchess  of 
Wickford. 

MY  DEAR  CHILD, 

Thank  you  for  your  letter,  it  touched  me  at 
this  juncture  to  see  one  in  your  hand.  It  would 
have  pained  me,  amongst  the  mass  of  letters  we 
have  received,  and  are  receiving,  to  have  missed 
my  eldest  daughter.  We  have  not  agreed  about 
Stephen,  Janet;  there  were  always  elements  in 


THE   TRUCE  129 

the  boy  women  as  such  could  not  understand. 
You  worried,  and  I  waited,  that  was  the  dif- 
ference. Now,  you  see,  when  the  moment  came, 
it  needed  but  his  country's  call  to  slough  off  that 
youthful  skin.  The  youngest  of  us,  the  first  to 
fall,  henceforth  in  front  of  his  brothers.  No 
man  of  our  house  need  be  ashamed  of  him  — 
personally  I  am  proud  and  glad.  We  have  a 
most  appreciative  letter  from  his  colonel,  but 
are  a  little  surprised  to  hear  nothing  from  Car- 
dew.  The  references  in  the  evening  papers 
helped  your  mother.  She  is  bearing  up  wonder- 
fully, but  of  course  it  has  been  a  shock.  .  .  . 

Lady  Kirkcudbright,  to  the  same. 

Oh  Janet,  Janet,  how  could  you  deceive  me 
about  him?  In  my  heart  I  knew  it  —  never  did 
him  justice  —  saw  so  little  of  him  these  last 
years  —  my  Steenie,  my  poor  boy.  .  .  . 

Sophie,  to  the  same:  from  Sevres. 

Madame  la  Duchesse  permettra-t-elle  que  je 
lui  off  re  ma  respectueuse  sympathie?  I  saw  in 
the  English  paper  here  about  M.  Crawford. 


130  JAMESIE 

Ah,  the  sad,  the  glorious  times!  Now  for  Ma- 
dame's  one  it  is  finished,  yet  she  has  others.  May 
she  be  consoled  and  fortified  in  her  sisterly  suf- 
fering. C'etait  une  belle  mart. 

My  little  one  is  better.  He  was  projected  by 
the  shell,  and  the  nerve  shaken,  not  broken  any- 
where. He  will  soon  go  back.  Then  I  also  re- 
turn and  promptly.  Fortunately  in  Madame's 
immediate  situation  so  interesting,  the  mourn- 
ing will  be  unimportant.  May  it  be  a  little  boy, 
for  Madame,  to  replace  him! 

Her  most  devoted 
SOPHIE. 

Cardew,  to  the  same. 

Hold  up,  old  girl,  here  we  are.  One  more 
pull,  and  we  are  through  with-  it.  It  was  all 
right,  ripping,  could  not  be  better.  I  send  you 
the  details  to  date,  so  far  as  I  can  get  them.  It 
is  cleared  right  out  of  the  path.  For  heaven's 
sake  write  to  the  Mater,  though  —  I  can't,  I 
feel  as  dead  as  a  fish  about  it.  The  fact  is  they 
have  been  so  out  of  it,  at  home,  these  last  years, 
that  I  hardly  know  where  I  am.  Anyhow  my 
head  is  going  round,  with  the  dead-stop  it  is, 
and  the  ass  one  feels  with  idiots  condoling. 


THE   TRUCE  131 

Women  can  put  it  on  better,  at  these  peculiar 
moments.  I  will  see  to  the  business  and  so  on. 

Your  brother  C. 

Janet,  to  her  Mother. 

Do  not  come  to  me,  Mother  darling.  This  is 
your  quiet  time,  and  I  shall  be  all  right.  The 
fourth,  you  know,  I  am  following  in  your  foot- 
steps. Only  —  no,  do  not  let  Father  wish  that. 
Cardie  sends  these  facts,  more  worthy  of  cre- 
dence, he  says,  than  the  colonel.  Think  of  that, 
and  the  first  time,  the  earliest.  It  is  the  only, 
only  way. 

Iveagh,  to  JVickford. 

I  saw  Stephen  in  the  Standard,  that  was  a 
good  end  for  him.  I  am  sorry  for  Jane,  the 
letters  she  will  be  getting.  Will  you  tell  her  I 
am  sorry  if  you  see  a  chance? 

Cardew,  to  Wickford. 

.  .  .  and  that  makes  the  last.  There  is  nothing 
else  serious,  that  can  come  to  my  father's  ears. 
Some  bits  of  debts  during  the  last  days,  but  that 
is  squared  by  the  news,  I  know  the  fellows. 
There  is  the  Irish  girl,  but  your  brother  says  he 


132  JAMESIE 

is  throttling  her,  good  man.  She  is  much  the 
worst  of  them,  eloquent,  it  used  to  make  the 
Mater  sick  getting  her  letters,  so  you  can  guess 
what  it  would  be  now.  For  the  time  she  has 
forgotten.  ...  It  is  jolly  good  of  you,  Wick- 
ford.  Of  course,  after  Mother,  it  was  the  thing 
that  bothered  me  most.  They  simply  do  not  let 
me  have  the  funds  necessary  to  cover  a  thing  like 
this,  and  the  pater  goes  off  so  easily.  ...  I  say, 
get  in  a  word  for  me  to  Lady  Iveagh,  will  you? 
She  seems  to  be  sick  with  me,  the  letter  I  wrote 
Janet.  I  never  supposed  anyone  would  look  at 
it.  I  dare  say  it  read  wildly  —  such  a  weight  off 
the  lot  of  us  —  such  a  relief. 

[Tire  birth  of  the  Duchess  of  Wickford's  third 
son  w  is  announced,  with  correct  war-time  dis- 
cretion, in  the  London  papers.] 

Car  dew,  to  Bess. 

DEAR  LADY  IVEAGH, 

I  am  beastly  sorry,  on  my  word  I  am.  I 
had  no  idea  J.  was  so  near  her  event.  One  for- 
gets, you  know.  I  wrote  to  my  mother,  on  the 
spot,  somehow,  better  than  nothing.  Of  course 
we  knew  J.  cared  for  him,  I  mean,  cared  in  the 
sense  of  working;  that  is  why  we  gave  her  the 


THE   TRUCE  133 

work.  Steenie  always  had,  from  a  kid,  rather 
belonged  to  her.  Now,  of  course,  having  the 
other 1  makes  it  worse.  I  wish  I  could  write 
better,  but  I  only  repeat  what  you  said  and  spoil 
it.  I  never  meant  she  should  lie  to  Mother,  I 
know  she  could  n't,  but  she  is  smart  at  writing, 
puts  things  so  well.  So  do  you,  my  word  —  but 
I  don't  wonder  you  are  sick  with  me. 

Would  it  be  any  good  telling  J.  that  Steenie 
really  thought  a  lot  of  her,  because  I  happen  to 
know  he  did.  I  have  a  note  he  started,  thanking 
her  for  something:  perhaps  better  not  send  it, 
but  you  could  say.  He  always  made  an  excep- 
tion for  her  when  he  was  down  on  his  luck, 
feminine  luck  I  mean.  And  look  here,  will 
you  give  her  my  love,  and  Ronald's,  and  say 
anyhow  we  appreciate  her?  And  look  here,  for- 
give me  yourself? 

[I  regret,  says  Herbert,  I  cannot  give  Bess's 
to  Cardew  which  called  forth  this.  Everybody, 
not  only  Bess's  own  belongings,  kept  her  letters 
so  closely.  This  may  be  because  she  wrote  little 
and  briefly,  even  to  Jamesie,  so  that  her  words 
were  of  weight;  or  it  may  be  other  things.] 

i  Child. 


134  JAMESIE 

The  Duchess,  to  the  same,  —  note. 

Dear,  it  is  all  right,  perfectly.  He  is  the  utter- 
est  darling,  though  small.  Nurse  says  if  I  am 
good  I  may  see  you  to-morrow.  It  is  good  for 
me,  really,  the  two  things  coming  together,  for 
it  forced  me  to  think.  He  will  have  been  born 
into  thought,  not  fury,  like  so  many  little  war- 
children.  It  was  like  you  to  come  and  leave 
everything,  when  poor  Mother  was  unable  to 
stir.  You  are  the  best,  Bess,  I  feel  you  are  sure 
of  things:  Jamesie  is  very  fortunate.  I  am  still 
weak,  perplexed  about  Steenie.  It  was  grand, 
we  were  wrong  possibly,  —  probably,  weren't 
we?  But,  Bess,  where  he  is  gone,  wherever  he 
is  gone  to,  will  he  not  begin  again? 

Katie  Rochester,  Castle  Wickford,  to  Lady 

Kirkcudbright;  seized  by  Suir 

before  transmission. 

Your  ladyships  Honour  in  her  berevment  will 
surly  let  me  come  near  with  mine  and  tell  you 
of  the  sweet  little  child  I  have  which  is  all  he 
has  left  behind  him.  Surly  your  ladyships 
Grace  will  beleve  my  word  it  is  his  and  none 
others  tho  in  this  wiked  place  they  make  play  to 


THE   TRUCE  135 

misbeleve.  But  ask  Ld.  Iveagh  if  it  is  true,  and 
me  with  a  note  from  himself  1  admitting  truth 
and  unwiling  to  penson  me  tho  the  Times  so 
hard.  It  is  not  your  Nobility  in  her  distress  will 
fail  to  grant  my  rights  or  preserve  what  is  left 
of  him  by  a  proper  alowance  this  being  a  man- 
child.  Is  the  country  and  the  Defense  not  needin 
them?  Will  he  not  be  a  Soldier-boy  as  his  Da 
was  the  darling  if  he  does  not  die  on  me  as  doc- 
tor nos  is  possible  his  Ldship  keeping  me  so  low. 
For  the  Holy  Mother's  sake  you  that  was  mother 
to  him  in  infancy  .  .  .  (And  so  on,) 

Joyce,  to  the  same. 

How  sweet  of  you  to  write  I  No  one  else  has 
thought  of  me,  nobody,  but  it  is  so  like  his  own 
mother  not  to  forget.  I  was  longing  to  talk  to 
you,  and  yet  telling  myself  that  Janet  would  do 
it  better,  and  then  your  dear  letter  came! 

Oh  yes,  it  was  a  shock,  a  thrill  extraordinary. 
I  am  managing  to  do  my  work  as  usual,  because 
it  is  the  only  way,  the  only  possible  way.  So 
many  are  having  their  secret  possessions  shorn 
away  like  this.  We  are  no  exception.  I  do  not 

1  Stephen. 


136  JAMESIE 

suffer  as  you  do  from  stupid  uncomprehending 
letters,  because  fortunately  so  few  knew  what 
there  was  between  us.  So  I  can  go  on  undis- 
turbed, steadily.  And  proud.  I  keep  a  vision 
of  his  face  as  it  was  that  morning,  and  I  keep 
the  scrawl  of  his  last  words  to  me.1  Of  course 
write,  dear  Lady  Kirkcudbright,  if  it  is  of  any 
comfort  to  you.  I  wish  I  could  come  to  you, 
but  work  —  ! 

Your  daughter  for  the  moment, 

JOYCE. 

Madeleine,  to  Linda  Monk. 

Joyce  may  be  writing  to  everybody,  but  she 
has  kept  off  me.  Consequently,  I  should  n't 
mind  knowing  how  she  is  taking  it.  I  think 
some  of  you  might  write  something  better  than 
a  postcard  at  times.  I  do  not  suppose  it  is  jolly 
for  Joyce,  all  things  considered,  any  more  than 
for  the  Duchess  —  I  managed  to  write  a  line 
to  her.  I  thought  Laura  or  somebody  said 
Ste,enie  had  been  knocked  out  by  that  doctor  in 
the  hospital  J.  was  so  keen  on,  or  was  that  my 
mistake?  I  am  sure,  you  see,  to  put  my  foot  in 
it  with  Joyce  unless  you  keep  me  up  to  date,  she 

1  This  document  I  have  not  even  looked  for.     S.  H. 


THE   TRUCE  137 

is  never  at  the  same  thing  for  a  week  together 
since  she  got  back  from  Germany.  One  man 
one  work,  is  what  I  should  suggest  for  Joyce. 
.  .  .  Linda,  I  say,  do  stop  her  about  the  mourn- 
ing, I  can't  stand  that.  If  she  expects  me  to,  I 
am  not  on,  even  to  a  band  on  my  uniform, 
thanks.  I  call  that  swank,  and  rather  a  nasty 
sort.  She  ought  anyhow  to  ask  leave  of  the 
family. 

[Joyce's  to  Madeleine  is  missing] 

Madeleine  to  Joyce. 

Hold  on!  I  can  stand  a  good  deal,  but  your 
last  was  not  nice  to  read.  Linda  most  likely 
misrepresented  what  I  said,  however  for  safety 
I  beg  your  pardon.  About  the  mourning  I  take 
back  nothing,  really  I  cannot  swallow  it;  but 
when  I  said  "  one  man  one  work,"  I  meant  one 
work  (war-work)  for  every  man  (or  woman), 
exactly  in  the  sense  of  "  one  man  one  vote." 
Now  is  that  clear?  I  did  not  mean  one  man  at 
a  time,  and  one  work  at  a  time,  which  is  how 
you  seem  to  have  chosen  to  take  it.  I  should  not 
have  said  that  to  you,  because  there  are  some 
things  I  do  not  say.  Not  that  you  will  ever 


138  JAMESIE 

believe  it.  Do  be  decent,  Joyce.  Don't  you 
drop  me,  because  I  want  somebody.  Use  your 
imagination  —  can't  you  see  what  it  is,  at  the 
end  of  a  hardish  day,  in  a  foreign  country,  to 
open  a  letter  from  England  and  find  that? 

M. 

[Iveagh's  to  Joyce  is  missing] 

Joyce  to  Iveagh. 

Thanks  for  your  interest.  How  are  you  feel- 
ing now  in  your  royal  retirement.  You  live  in  a 
Castle,  don't  you?  I  always  understood  those 
ancient  keeps  were  especially  hard  to  attack. 
No  room  even  for  a  wandering  arrow  through 
the  little  windows,  on  to  the  breakfast  table,  for 
instance.  Shere's  best  friend  was  blown  to  frag- 
ments last  week,  while  he  was  drinking  a  cup  of 
coffee,  under  his  eyes.  Pleasant,  would  n't  it  be, 
to  see  your  school-friend  dispersed  so  unexpect- 
edly. Still,  I  dare  say  you  would  take  it  calmly. 
Jack  seems  to  have  had  a  bit  of  a  jar.  .  .  .  You 
do  seem  to  be  busy,  to  judge  by  your  wife's 
anxiety.  Don't  you  break  down,  or  whatever 
will  the  country  do?  And  just  keep  that  beastly 
girl  from  writing  her  beastly  letters  to  Stephen's 


THE   TRUCE  139 

poor  mother,  will  you?  I  should  have  thought 
you  would  have  had  the  sense  to  think  of  that 
without  me,  however  I  offer  you  a  hint.  In  case 
you  have  missed  Stephen's  colonel's  report,  I 
send  you  the  cutting,  —  his  father  had  it  printed. 
They  are  putting  a  marble  up  in  the  church  to 
him,  and  allowing  me  to  contribute,  privately. 
Publicly,  of  course,  it  would  be  too  trying  to 
take  part.  .  .  . 

Iveagh  to  Joyce. 

I  just  wanted  to  set  you  right  about  the  castle. 
It  was  built  about  1840,  and  is  plastered  par- 
ticularly in  the  style.  It  would  fall  a  little  easier 
than  Antwerp.  It  is  large  and  to  spare,  the  win- 
dows are  big  enough  for  rocks  to  come  through, 
or  rotten  eggs,  or  anything.  I  am  sorry  I  wrote 
at  all,  if  it  offended  you.  It  might  have  been 
better  not.  If  you  will  excuse  me  you  are  lying 
about  Katie,  I  should  say  misinformed.  Any 
letters  from  her  Stephen's  mother  refers  to  are 
old  ones,  dating  before  I  came  on  the  scene.  It 
is  not  that  I  trust  the  girl,  anything  but,  it  is 
simpler.  I  have  the  postmistress  under  my 
thumb.  That  can  be  managed  this  side;  and 
Katie,  owing  to  a  young  child,  cannot  easily  get 


i4o  JAMESIE 

beyond  my  watching,  or  our  post.    You  can  be 
easy  as  to  that  matter,  really.  .  .  . 

Joyce,  to  Iveagh. 

How  dare  you  mention  a  child  to  me?  How 
exactly  like  you.  Whose  child  is  it?  I  hate 
you. 

j. 

Iveagh,  to  Wickford. 

I  cannot  do  that  girl  Joyce,  I  am  bound  to 
mismanage  it.  I  dare  say  I  should  not  have 
started,  considering  what  is  past.  It  is  very  odd 
of  Lady  K.  to  take  her  up,  especially  in  Janet's 
present  situation,  but  I  have  long  given  up  un- 
derstanding them.1  Bess  and  Janet  are  the  only 
two  I  understand.  ...  I  am  glad  Jane  is  better 
now,  don't  mention  it.  My  claim  on  my  wife  at 
present  is  nil,  and  Mother's  you  settled  nicely. 
I  am  sincerely  obliged  for  that.  Why  does 
Mother  not  get  a  proper  manager,  with  the 
money  she  has?  There  are  lots  of  women  out 
of  work,  if  I  understand  Trix  Adler.  Not  but 
what  my  own  is  out  of  work,  myself  having  the 
boy  here,  only  Mother  does  not  pay  her  for 

1  Mothers. 


THE   TRUCE  141 

what  she  does.  And  besides  I  would  not  let  her 
take  it  if  Mother  did  —  so  now  you  know  all  my 
feelings. 

Jim  is  a  good  boy,  and  does  his  lessons  and 
jobs  for  me,  and  when  I  cannot  see  to  him  I  let 
him  read  at  large.  I  do  not  know  how  many  of 
Father's  books  are  really  applicable  to  the  situa- 
tion, I  have  an  idea  the  girl  might  object  to  some 
of  them,  but  what  are  you  to  do?  They  are  good 
books,  if  the  history  they  contain  is  not  true  com- 
pletely; and  it  is  not  more  godless  than  the  his- 
tory we  are  constructing  now.  .  .  . 

[Joyce's  to  Francis  is  missing:  Linda  had  ap- 
parently commissioned  her  to  write  with  a  con- 
signment, in  the  first  instance.] 

Francis  to  Joyce. 

Miss  JOYCE, 

I  have  not  forgotten  you  Miss  and  thank 
you  for  your  letter,  as  also  Mrs  Monk  for  what 
she  has  sent.  The  cake  was  excellent,  and  large 
enough  for  a  battalion,  indeed  most  of  ours  en- 
joyed it.  Only  perhaps  I  might  say  to  you  Miss 
what  I  would  not  to  her,  not  wishing  to  appear 
ungrateful,  that  a  young  lady  is  already  looking 
after  me.  It  is  only  knowing  many  to  be  worse 


142  JAMESIE 

off,  for  Lady  Iveagh  remembers  me  also,  I  ven- 
ture this,  since  equal  all  round  is  what  we  strive 
for,  I  own  very  hard  to  get.  I  am  told  by  one 
who  should  know  that  the  French  army  is  cared 
for  less  than  ours  is,  and  fond  of  eating  de- 
cidedly, so  there  would  be  no  waste  nor  failure 
to  appreciate  cakes  like  that.  And  some  people 
think  the  exchange  nice  between  the  countries, 
as  giving  things  a  lift  in  a  situation  a  bit  tricky 
like  this  occupation  of  ours.  This  last  is  my 
own  view  solely,  may  be  quite  off,  but  taken  as  I 
may  say  first  hand.  It  seems  a  pity  since  we  are 
here  so-called  to  help  the  French,  and  fighting 
in  the  style  they  do,  they  should  take  against  us, 
what  do  you  say  Miss?  Clever  as  you  are  at  per- 
suasion,1 perhaps  you  can  make  your  sister  and 
others  as  liberal  see  it,  it  might  do  good. 

Yes,  I  saw  about  Lieutenant  Crawford,  a  very 
game  end  as  good  as  any  sportsman  could  de- 
sire. I  have  not  forgotten  his  playing  that  day 
what  anyone  could  see  was  the  smart  University 
style.  And  good  playing  should  make  fair  fight- 
ing is  what  we  are  acustomed  to  believe.  Still 
it  takes  two  to  make  a  fair  fight.  The  less  said 
of  that  the  better  after  this  Gas.  Mr.  Jamesie 

1  Platform  —  F.  had  heard  her. 


THE   TRUCE  143 

writes  me  too  from  Ireland,  and  killing  it  is,  I 
can  tell  you  here  his  letters  go  round.  Mr.  Her- 
bert I  know  considers  him  out  of  the  way.  His 
lordship  I  naturally  can't  speak  of  knowing  little 
of  him  but  through  Mr.  James. 

Herbert,  to  Francis,  returning  the  above  letter 
to  its  author. 

I  should  cut  out  the  last  sentence.  No  need,  I 
mean,  to  discuss  every  point  Miss  Pennant 
brings  up.  Otherwise  it  is  first-class,  and  could 
offend  nobody.  Thanks  for  the  confidence. 

S.  H. 

[Joyce's  to  Shere  is  missing] 

Shere,  to  Linda. 

MY  DEAR  GIRL, 

Much  obliged  for  yours,  sorry  I  had  no 
time  to  answer  immediately.  We  have  had  a 
bit  of  a  scuffle  here  these  last  two  days.  I  can 
teli  you  the  pate  was  appreciated,  a  very  kind 
thought.  I  have  been  tossing  up  about  Joyce, 
but  have  decided  not  to  answer  her.  She  is  a 
trifle  excited,  isn't  she?  And  it's  a  rottenly 
delicate  situation.  Silence  is  best. 

Look  here,  why  the  devil  does  she  drag  Suir 


144  JAMESIE 

in?  That  is  what  bores  me  partly.  I  can't  get 
a  way  on,  somehow,  writing  about  a  thing  like 
that.  What  has  he  got  to  do  with  her,  anyhow? 
Was  there  really  something  between  them?  I 
remember  tossing  up,  that  night  at  Holmer,  and 
deciding  against,  with  Herbert's  assistance.  My 
idea  was,  she  was  simply  paying  him  out  for 
Crawford  —  if  you  can't  kick  the  driver  kick 
the  next  horse,  that  sort  of  idea.  Only  there 
seems  less  point,  somehow,  in  kicking  him  now. 
However,  this  may  just  prove  my  ignorance  of 
the  sweet  lot  of  you,  may  n't  it?  Perhaps  I  will 
have  a  shot,  when  I  have  rested  a  bit,  at  answer- 
ing Joyce.  [Shere  did  no/.] 

As  to  that  night  at  Holmer,  it  may  seem  odd 
to  you,  but  I  cannot  forget  it.  It  comes  clearer. 
It  may  be  because  I  felt  a  fool.  I  would  n't  go 
as  far  as  your  word  "indecent,"  Linda,  that's 
the  kind  of  thing  that  only  sisters  say.  But  I 
know  I  funked,  before  the  end :  I  wanted  to  get 
behind  a  door,  and  so  did  Herbert.  And  you, 
if  I  remember,  got  behind  one,  anyhow  I 
could  n't  find  you  when  I  looked  for  you.  Well, 
I  have  something  of  the  nature  of  gratitude  left 
to  Suir,  because  he  tackled  it.  He  went  at  it 
straight,  I  can't  say  more.  I  can't  get  what  I 


THE   TRUCE  145 

want  to  stated,  the  fact  is  I  feel  rather  rocky, 
writing  on  the  subject,  even  to  you.  If  he  turned 
red  rebel  now  (which  after  all  is  n't  probable) 
and  went  to  quod,  I  could  n't  exactly  despise 
him,  merely  because  your  sister  asked  me.  We 
men  form  up  in  war-time,  don't  we?  that  is  ex- 
pected. Only,  as  soon  as  one  of  you  flutters  out 
against  us,  somehow  or  other,  in  spite  of  the 
beastly  jam  it  is,  the  old  formation  exists. 

[I  am  inclined  to  add,  says  Herbert,  but  that 
it  is  so  superfluous,  Shere  never  wrote  anything 
like  this  kind  of  letter  before:  and  above  all, 
not  to  Linda.  It  is  merely  another  proof,  if 
proof  were  wanting,  how  we  had  all  grown 
years  older,  wearily  older,  in  those  few  inex- 
pressible months. 

It  was  Bess  who  sent  Jamesie  to  Ireland,  at 
the  New  Year,  for  Iveagh's  good :  just  like  her. 
She  naturally  wanted  Jamesie  herself.  It  was 
also  for  the  good  of  my  chronicle,  for  Jamesie 
in  a  new  country  is  an  immense  asset.  He  was 
in  three,  I  am  thankful  to  say,  before  the  end  of 
things.  How  many  he  had  been  in  since  his 
birth,  I  should  not  care  to  state.  He  was  born  at 
Durban,  and  was  a  travelled  person,  hence  his 
pleasing  adaptability.  Some  of  the  following 
passages  are  ante-dated  to  the  death  of  Steenie, 
evidently;  but  Jamesie  never  dated,  and  Iveagh 


146  JAMESIE 

rarely,  in  private  life.    I  suppose  the  true  Suir 
style  is  too  spontaneous,  bother  them  both!] 


Jamesie,  to  Denise. 

CHERE  DENISE, 

Vous  etes  parfaitment  tort  malheureuse- 
ment,  et  votre  oncle  aussi.  C'est  difficile  a  dire 
comment  tort  vous  etes  sans  le  Dictionaire  ou 
Father.  Irlande  est  un  excellent  epatant  pays, 
et  c'est  notre.  Ce  ne  sont  pas  Traitres  ils  sont 
diferent  qu'  Anglais.  C'est  sotte  a  dire  quand 
vous  savez  pas.  Pardon,  jour  apres  voyage. 
Beaucoup  d'amourl 

JAMESIE. 

The  same,  to  Francis. 

Thank  you  very  much  for  the  Card  and  the 
Joke.  I  showed  Father,  at  Breakfast.  Yes  it  is 
a  very  Long  Way.1  I  came  over  with  the  Horse- 
less Earl  (he  is  n't  one  realy)  and  looked  out 
hard  for  Submarines.  I  know  what  there  like, 
Nurse's  sister  at  Holmer  saw  one  that  dived 
right  under  her  ship.  It  did  n't  want  her  then 
been 2  Red  Cross,  but  now  they  do.  Is  n't  it 

1  What  can  this  joke  have  been? 
1  See  below. 


THE   TRUCE  147 

Horuble?  So  there  wasnt  a  single  Periscope  so 
fars  I  could  see.  After  that  I  was  sick.  But 
this  side  is  very  nice  with  a  Library  of  heavenly 
smelling  books.  I  know  lots  of  people.  I  know 
Bridgie  Haloran  who  is  very  Funy.  I  know 
Tims  at  Holmers  Family.  I  know  Katie  Roch- 
ester a  little  not  much.  Are  you  learning  French 
Francis?  When  are  you  going  out?  With 
salute 

Yours  truly 
J.  C.  SuiR. 

[Been.  This  mistake  is  invariable  in  the 
Jamesie  letters.  It  is  strictly  phonetic,  "  been  " 
what  he  heard.  He  elaborates  the  theme  of 
Katie  in  a  letter  to  Kells,  which  Nurse  confis- 
cated, and  then,  in  her  immaculate  style,  sent  it 
to  Wickford,  who  gave  it  me.] 

I  know  Gerry  Rochester  Tim  mentioned  and 
I  know  Katie  a  little.  She  calls  Father  Darling! 
He  says  its  the  way  of  the  girl  and  I  'm  not  to 
go  there  often.  Sometimes  she  's  angry  then  she 
asks  why  hes  not  at  the  war.  She  's  got  a  baby 
littler  than  ours.1  I  asked  Father  where  its 
father  was  privately  (because  you  know  now  he 

1  He  shares  with  Kells. 


148  JAMESIE 

might  be  dead)  and  Father  said  fighting  in 
France.  So  if  Uncle  Wick  saw  a  soldier  in  an 
Irish  Regiment  called  that 1  it  would  probly  be 
him.  Love  to  Nurse  and  Aileen. 

Yours, 
J.  C.  S.  (Hon.  O.T.C.  etc.) 

St.  John  Herbert,  to  Jamesie,  experimental. 
How  is  your  father? 

Jamesie  to  Herbert. 

Father  is  well  I  think,  I  saw  him  laugfing.  It 
was  about  the  Jumping  Lesson.  I  wanted  to 
jump  the  Blackberry  side  of  the  Bohireen,  be- 
cause then  I  could  be  Cavalry  charging  a  Barbed 
Wire  Entanglement  (the  Blackberries).  Per- 
haps they  dont.  Father  said  Id  do  fairly.  Then 
we  went  home.  And  in  the  evening  oh  dear!  It 
did  hurt  so  all  my  legs  and  where  I  sit  down. 
Father  seen  it 2  said  he  was  sorry.  So  I  had  my 
handkerchief2  and  the  Button  came  out  too, 
Bavarian,  real,  very  like  Gold,  that  M.  Gabriel 
sent  me.  I  had  kept  it  in  my  pocket  but  it  rold, 
under  Col.  Hamilton's  chair.  And  so  he  looked 
at  it.  And  so  Father  did.  And  so  after  that  I 

1  Rochester.  *  Tears,  —  I  asked  Bess. 


THE   TRUCE  149 

showed  him  all  the  Letters  and  the  Field  En- 
velopes and  everything,  because  he  had  time. 

[Most  significant,  this.  A  Bavarian  button, 
delicately  kept  from  Jamesie's  father's  observa- 
tion, had  escaped  control.  An  alarming  instant: 
but  Iveagh,  cut  off  from  the  army,  and  conscious 
of  having  over-jumped  Jamesie,  did  not  flinch. 
He  even  found  time  to  digest  Jamesie's  military 
correspondence,  enormous  as  I  knew,  including 
the  envelopes.  How  I  envied  him!  I  scarcely 
dared  show  this  letter  to  Bess.  When  I  did  she 
let  me  have  Iveagh's,  like  a  good  girl,  to  com- 
pare with  it] 

Iveagh,  to  his  wife. 

I  am  sorry  Bess,  I  overdid  him.  I  forget  the 
age  he  is.  It  was  partly  the  horse  he  had  was  a 
fool,  refusing  for  the  fun  of  it,  but  I  was  worse. 
He  held  up  well  through  dinner,  poor  little  gos- 
soon, Hamilton  being  with  us.  Luckily  he  had 
to  leave  early,  or  else  he  saw  my  vexation.  My 
temper  is  really  not  dependable.  I  let  Jim  into 
the  office  where  there  was  the  leavings  of  a  fire, 
and  he  showed  me  all  those  blessed  letters  he 
has  collected  exhaustively,  in  and  out.  The 
terms  he  knows  are  surprising,  and  not  so  very 
wild.  Blakie  and  Tim  and  young  Furniss  all 


150  JAMESIE 

write  to  him,  not  to  say  Cardew  and  Ronald  * 
and  Shere.  Having  shown  me  the  most  of  the 
stuff,  Jim  dropped  asleep  on  me.  So  I  took  him 
to  the  room  where  he  sleeps  and  a  poor  one  it  is, 
I  wish  you  were  here  to  make  things  prettier. 
And  I  undressed  him,  his  head  falling  all  ways, 
and  having  a  fair  chance  I  looked.  He  is  not 
hurt  to  mention.  I  will  keep  him  quiet  by  me 
these  next  days.  He  gets  soft  with  that  London 
life,  my  brother  and  I  were  harder.  Perhaps  I 
should  let  him  come  back  to  you  when  that  man 2 
comes  over,  will  I?  I  have  been  sulking  like  a 
brute  for  a  week,  and  Jim  has  the  benefit.  Not 
a  boy  to  be  seen  in  the  town,  and  the  Geoghans 
above  themselves  with  Tim's  performances  such 
that  I  fear  to  meet  them.  And  even  Katie  is  at 
it  now,  on  Joyce's  lines,  mentioning  Crawford  to 
me  unnecessarily.  She  tries  to  screw  me  up  3 
with  the  high  prices,  I  wish  I  had  you  to  judge 
a  little.  It  is  hard  living  naturally,  and  you 
cannot  reason  with  a  girl  like  that,  and  she  with 
a  baby  at  the  breast.  To  be  sure  she  soon  forgot 
and  was  loving  me  again,  but  that  also  has  its 
drawbacks.  She  darlings  me  before  the  Hamil- 
tons,  and  I  leave  you  to  imagine  how  that  lets 

1  Janet's  brothers.  *  Wickford.  *  Financially. 


THE   TRUCE  151 

me  in.  I  do  not  let  the  boy  to  her  often,  though 
she  asks  no  better  than  to  worship  him  as  they 
all  do.  ...  This  merely  to  tell  you  of  the  rid- 
ing —  I  am  sorry,  my  dear. 

[The  situation  of  Katie,  exactly  wrong  way 
before  as  an  Irish  situation  should  be,  curled  me 
up  with  artistic  appreciation;  not  Bess,  who 
most  probably  did  not  follow  it.  Iveagh  "  left 
her  to  imagine  "  in  vain.  She  and  Iveagh  are 
not  the  least  alike,  they  are  astonishingly  op- 
posed by  nature,  and  he  must  have  shocked  her 
Puritanism  persistently,  all  the  while  he  was 
teaching  her  life.  His  sentiments  in  her  are 
now  most  easy  to  recognise:  they  are  in  a  distinct 
partition  from  her  own,  under  his  aegis,  as  it 
were,  and  she  studies  them  shyly  at  times,  as  she 
would  read  in  a  library  some  good  author's 
broad  book.  Yet  the  teaching  is  complete,  that 
I  can  answer  for;  nothing  really  of  life  can  take 
Bess  by  surprise. 

The  war  was  a  test  for  this  real  difference, 
for  they  were  at  once  asunder  in  opinion,  and 
widely.  It  was  a  wonder  they  did  not  quarrel : 
Iveagh  would  have  if  she  had  let  him.  Bess 
was  linked  on  every  side  to  the  North  Midland 
Quakers:  any  war,  for  whatever  cause,  was  to 
her  fundamental  religious  sense  a  disgrace  to 
humanity.  She  never  got  used  to  this,  nor  saw 


i^2  JAMESIE 

it  otherwise  than  at  once  loathesome  and  gro- 
tesque. I  rather  agreed  with  her,  on  the  main 
issues,  —  Iveagh  did  not.  He  could  not,  coming 
of  that  race,  his  instincts  were  too  primitive. 
All  his  wife's  relations  stood  out  stiff  against 
conscription;  and  she  owned  a  second  cousin,  a 
city  councillor  aged  forty,  who  was  a  distin- 
guished example  of  what  we  now  call  a  C.O. 
Iveagh,  who  had  been  patient  with  her,  for  him, 
struck  at  this  point,  and  flatly  forbade  her  to 
name  the  gentleman  in  Jamesie's  hearing.  I 
have  the  letter  in  which  he  said  so.  He  went 
the  whole  way,  and  threatened  censorship  of  the 
correspondence.  It  would  keep  Jamesie,  he 
said,  awake  at  nights  "  dreaming  of  such  deadli- 
ness,"  and  if  he  must  read  "  such,"  he  could  read 
the  talking  in  the  Pilgrim's  Progress.  The 
literary  side  of  me  eagerly  acquiesced  in  this: 
so  Bess,  armed  with  her  C.O.,  and  his  con- 
troversy with  his  judges,  carefully  typed  by  a 
serious  society,  was  disappointed  in  both  of  us. 

I  proceed,  with  this  preface,  to  the  business  of 
the  Bavarian  Button.  The  Button  figured,  I 
think  without  exception  in  all  Jamesie's  letters 
to  everybody,  for  a  month  at  least.  It  is  clear 
his  correspondents  in  the  crack  regiments  did 
not  spoil  him  in  the  matter  of  souvenirs.] 


THE   TRUCE  153 

DEAR  MOTHER, 

I  told  about  my  Button  to  Joyce,  and  Mother 
she  said  she  would  not  keep  a  thing  that  be- 
longed to  the  Beastly  Bavarians.  Mother  are 
they?  And  she  said  she  would  bury  it  and 
stamp  the  earth  over  not  carry  it  on  a  Pink  Cot- 
ton round  my  neck. 

[Bess  was  awakened.] 

Nobody  [she  replied],  if  they  thought  for  one 
moment,  would  say  that  a  whole  nation  was 
beastly,  or  any  such  stupid  word.  It  could  not 
be  true,  because  there  are  always  the  little 
babies,  and  the  children  who  can  only  believe 
what  they  are  taught,  and  the  nice  people  every- 
where, and  the  very  helpless  old.  Not  one  of 
these  can  be  beastly  possibly,  any  more  than  a 
whole  nation  can  be  noble,  or  just.  There  were 
Bavarians,  I  know,  were  particularly  kind  to 
Joyce,  only  she  has  forgotten.  It  is  her  memo- 
ries of  that  kindness  that  she  wants  to  stamp  the 
earth  over,  darling. 

DARLING  MOTHER, 

Mary  Geoghan  has  polished  up  my  Button 
now  and  it  looks  like  gold.  She  has  a  Helmet 


154  JAMESIE 

Tim  sent  her,  but  not  Bavarian.  Father  and  I 
went  to  the  Fair  to  look  at  Farmhorses,  and  lots 
of  Men  saw  it  smiling  when  they  passed.  I  saw 
a  horse  with  a  face  you  would  have  simply  loved, 
but  Father  liked  the  back  legs  of  the  other  bet- 
ter, so  we  bought  him  after  lots  of  talking. 
Father  is  funiest  realy.  We  had  dinner  at  the 
Hotel.  Mother  why  did  Joyce  forget? 

War  makes  a  difference  [said  Lady  Iveagh]. 
Think,  if  you  had  known  and  liked  a  Denise  in 
Germany,  just  as  much  as  our  dear  Denise  in 
France,  and  then  we  had  made  war  on  her 
people.  Would  you  not  have  had  to  forget  her? 
Ask  Father. 

Mother,  I  did,  and  he  says  you  can  Shut  it, 
preechin.  Mother  I  thought  about  her  lots  and 
lots,  simply  all  last  night  I  was  n't  asleep.  I 
heard  the  stable  clock  three  times.  Its  awful 
still  I  do  know  now.  Look  here.  I  would  just 
write  to  her  quitely  and  say  Denise  (not  Dear 
been  Public)  it  is  a  great  Pity  your  army  tries 
to  fight  us  we  are  so  strong  on  the  map  of  the 
colunies  it  will  simply  certainly  all  be  killed. 
So  now  that  is  all  but  Id  like  to  know  how  you 
all  go  on  your  uncle  Gabriel  been  a  German 


THE   TRUCE  155 

Aviator  (you  see  he  would)  can  just  fly  and  drop 
it  as  soons  he  sees  some  English  soldiers  having 
Breakfast.  It  neednt  have  a  stamp.  Yours 
without  Im  afraid  much  els  after  the  Belgians 
J.C.S.  Well.  Then  Miss  Kitchins  friend  could 
sew  it  in  a  Prisoner's  Sack  and  ask  the  Prisoner 
geting  it  to  post  it  if  he  saw  a  Box,  because  they 
do  exercise,  so  that  would  be  settled  and  Done. 
Im  sorry  that  D  smuged  but  it  makes  it  so 
awfuly  long  esplaning.  I  wish  you  were  here 
Mother.  Goodnight. 

From 
JAMESIE. 

[There  is  nobody,  declares  Herbert,  but 
Jamesie,  who  in  forty- five  minutes'  steadfast 
thinking  (thank  heaven  that  clock  strikes  the 
quarters,  I  asked  Iveagh),  could  have  evolved 
two  several  ways  of  eluding  the  neutral  censor's 
eye.  The  Avuncular  Aviator  is  so  divinely 
simple  that  I  am  hanged  if  I  do  not  believe  it 
must  have  happened.  When  I  enquired  of  du 
Frettay,  he  said,  if  it  had  not  it  was  going  to, 
and  I  could  tell  Jamesie  so.] 

Look  here,  girl,  will  you  shut  it?  It 's  sicken- 
ing. It  will  do  for  him  in  addition  to  the  work 
I  give  him,  which  is  enough.  He  was  as  white 


156  JAMESIE 

and  large-eyed  after  thinking  all  that  out  for 
you  when  he  came  to  say  goodnight  to  us,  as  he 
was  when  Byrne  fetched  him  over  this  last  time, 
and  he  sick  off  the  sea.  And  all  his  arithmetic 
done  right  as  well,  it  is  enough  to  finish  me  at 
the  end  of  a  day's  bothering  to  have  to  show  a 
kid  to  the  world  so  well-behaved.  When,  I  ask 
you,  did  I  deserve  it?  And  then  the  men  with 
me  got  hold  of  the  letter  and  roared,  which  made 
it  no  better  for  him.  It  is  not  fair  treatment.  I 
just  took  him  and  told  him  all  the  rubbishy 
stories  of  moonlighting,  ratting  and  thieving  I 
could  think  of  for  half  an  hour  till  I  saw  his 
colour  come  again.  And  when  I  had  him  laugh- 
ing at  me  I  did  not  want  to  lose  him,  only  I  did 
my  duty  by  your  memory.  Do  you  remember 
the  age  he  is?  How  is  a  kid  that  size  to  catch 
hold  of  questions  that  dish  us  all?  Harping  on 
friendships,  I  tell  you  it  will  be  nobody's  fault 
but  yours  if  it  turns  into  something  else  and  we 
have  him  in  love  with  a  French  girl  at  seven 
years  old.  I  began  young  you  may  remember, 
and  my  father  also.  Now  perhaps  you  '11  drop 
evangelising.  And  as  if  he  needed  it.  I  took 
him  to  church  on  Sunday  as  you  said,  and  the 
lesson  we  had  was  inconvenient.  I  was  certain 


THE   TRUCE  157 

he  would  have  at  me  after,  saw  him  loading  up 
for  it,  but  luckily  a  hen  came  in.  There  is  al- 
ways that  chance  in  the  churches  here,  that  the 
poultry  and  such  may  save  you.  He  talked 
about  that  hen  going  home,  and  me  encourag- 
ing him  feverishly.  He  only  got  on  to  the 
Testament  lesson  towards  the  end  of  dinner,  and 
by  then  I  had  the  courage  in  me  to  come  down. 
And  then  Byrne,  who  we  went  to  see  at  Glentooly 
says  he  is  the  picture  of  my  father,  with  a  San 
Greal  speciality  mounted.  San  Greal!  Fancy 
my  desperate  feelings  when  myself  had  taught 
him  to  ride.  .  .  . 

[Bess  promptly  weeded  out  the  elemental  in 
the  above,  and  flung  it  back  at  him.] 

How  can  you  suggest  such  things,  Iveagh, 
about  Denise  and  Jamesie?  It  is  you  who  do  not 
remember  his  age.  Please  be  careful  what  you 
say  to  him  on  the  subject,  he  takes  her  so  very 
seriously.  I  told  Janet,  and  she  is  just  as  dis- 
pleased as  I  am.  She  says  Wickford  does  the 
same  thing  when  she  does  not  watch  him.  Have 
you,  Janet  says,  any  suspicions  of  Aileen?  — 
because  she  had  rather  know.  You  must  have 
been  rather  nasty,  both  of  you,  living  in  the 


158  JAMESIE 

stables  when  you  were  seven,  hardened  and  so 
on,  I  do  not  the  least  want  to  hear  about  it.  I 
am  glad  I  did  not  know  you.  Sir  James  seems 
to  have  been  telling  shocking  things  about  your 
youth  to  Jamesie,  so  I  warn  you,  he  will  not  take 
you  for  a  model,  at  this  rate,  long.  Censor  my 
letters  if  you  dare,  I  shall  go  on  doing  it.  It  is 
the  only  way  to  keep  him  respectable.  I  am 
sorry  about  your  trials,  darling.  Don't  be 
anxious  about  J.,  he  is  strong,  and  I  perfectly 
trust  you.  I  can  go  on  doing  without  him  for  a 
little  while.  Has  Katy  got  clothes  enough  for 
that  baby?  Ask  her. 

E.  S. 

[This  letter  being  too  critical,  possibly, 
Iveagh  did  not  hide  it  in  a  magpie  hole.  He  let 
it  lie  about  his  office  at  the  Castle,  and  Sir  James 
Byrne  picked  it  up.  Byrne  being  of  my  own 
profession,  possessed  no  conscience.  He  read  it 
first,  stole  it  second,  and  lastly,  gave  it  to  me.  I 
ought  perhaps  to  say  a  word  of  Judge  Byrne,  so 
many  of  the  Jamesie  letters  mention  him.  He 
was  Jamesie's  namesake  and  godfather,  and 
Iveagh's  ally  and  sustainer  through  life.  He 
had  loved  and  upheld  Iveagh  throughout  his 
unregenerate  youth,  seconding  him  vigorously 
against  his  parents;  and  now  it  became  a  new- 


THE   TRUCE  159 

born  delight  to  him  to  give  Iveagh  away  to 
Jamesie.  He  was  a  conscience-less  person.  It 
was  he  brought  Jamesie  over  to  the  snores  of  his 
fathers,  and  put  him,  pastorally  as  it  were,  into 
Iveagh's  arms.  "  Iveagh  and  I,"  said  Byrne, 
"  were  shuddering  with  sentiment  on  the  occa- 
sion; but  Jamesie  was  shuddering  with  some- 
thing far  else.  He  turned  sick  at  the  end,  as 
some  children  do,  having  looked  out  for  sub- 
marines happily  all  the  way  across.  Being  an 
old  bachelor,  I  was  delighted  to  get  rid  of  him, 
but  more  than  a  little  paralysed  to  see  no  woman 
there.  That  is  the  way  the  boy  always  gets  me, 
for  he  took  it  on  him  easily.  I  saw  how  his  wife 
had  trusted  him,  from  that  moment.  He  is 
never  afraid,  Iveagh,  never  the  least  afraid." 
Byrne  was  prejudiced,  naturally:  still,  I  set  this 
beside  the  Duke's  "  bread-and-butter  courage," 
as  interesting. 

I  proceed  to  the  "  play,"  as  Wickford  always 
called  it,  an  incident  taken  with  extreme  calm 
by  the  Irish  section,  though  it  produced  an  im- 
mense stir,  as  shall  be  seen,  in  Jamesie's  England 
at  the  front.  Jamesie,  just  so  soon  as  action 
comes  along,  steps  into  his  proper  shoes  as  hero.] 


160  JAMESIE 

The  Duke,  to  Judge  Byrne,  with  enclosure 
following. 

Is  the  boy  off  it?  He  writes  the  weirdest 
letters  nowadays.  Is  there  by  any  chance  not 
room  for  the  two  of  us  on  my  property?  What 
is  he  playing  at,  tell  me  kindly. 

W. 


f  to  the  Duke,  offered  for  the  Judge's 
commentary. 

The  clearing  on  the  front  1  is  going  strongly, 
so  let  you  be  at  rest  about  it.  You  would  be 
surprised  if  you  saw  how  nice,  with  that 
woman's  2  money,  we  have  made  the  town. 
Most  of  the  people  are  quite  pleased,  thanks  to 
Jamesie's  persuasion  upon  their  taste.  He  is  of 
use  to  me,  the  way  he  points  out  on  his  own  the 
artistic  advantages,  while  I  make  play  with  the 
drains  and  so  forth.  But  it  is  needed  nowadays, 
since  other  things  are  not  so  easy.  ...  I  am 
sorry  Adair  is  gone,  and  Werner  —  odd  to  think 
he  was  an  Austrian  originally.  Ingestre's  wound 
is  nothing,  I  have  the  doctor's  word  for  it.  He 
is  coming  to  Glentooly  to  recruit  at  Easter,  what 

1  River-front.  *  Janet. 


THE   TRUCE  161 

time  Byrne  has  finally  decided  to  let  the  fishing 
and  the  house.  .  .  .  He  asked  me  to  join  them. 
I  can't,  of  course,  but  the  letter  was  very  nice. 
He  is  just  the  same,  and  he  addresses  me  as  it 
might  be  anybody.  He  said  the  German  ques- 
tion was  easier  than  this,1  and  would  be  shorter, 
which  is  likely.  The  nature  of  the  people  is 
easier.  I  had  sooner  deal  with  Bethmann  Holl- 
weg,  any  day,  than  with  Bridgie  Halloran  when 
she  calls  to  mind  Crawford's  English  fashion  of 
evicting  her,  and  forgets  the  fact  she  is  in  a  much 
better  house.  It  is  the  cats  she  regrets  really, 
they  ran  about  the  heather,  and  she  never  got 
back  more  than  six  of  them.  It  was  the  one  true 
cause  of  Patie  Halloran's  not  enlisting.  Now, 
Bess  would  have  found  that  out  for  me  sooner, 
would  she  not?  It 's  a  hundred  pities,  for  cats 
and  little  things  like  that,  I  have  not  Bess  with 
me  here.  .  .  .  Having  remarked  so  much,  I 
come  to  business.  If  you  get  your  leave  long 
enough,  wait  for  a  note  before  you  come  to  me. 
Do  not  mind  the  elegant  telegrams  we  send  you, 
because  the  post-people  see  those.  Only  notice 
what  I  say  under  cover,  which  I  pray  to  Provi- 
dence they  do  not  see.  I  wish  there  were  riders 

1  Irish. 


1 62  JAMESIE 

now  for  messages,  or  I  had.  a  wireless  station. 
The  chances  are,  at  the  time  you  mean,  you  had 
better  keep  out  of  it.  And  yet  Lord  knows  I  'd 
like  you  for  a  lot  of  things.  We  are  really  get- 
ting through  some  of  it  at  last.  Jim's  regards  to 

the  Generals. 

Yours  ever, 
I.  S. 

Judge  Byrne,  to  the  Duke. 

Come,  man  alive!  Can  you  not  read  through 
that  how  sorely  you  are  wanted?  Give  him 
your  countenance  at  least  in  the  work  he  is 
doing,  it  is  too  hard  on  mortal  else.  You  ought 
to  have  shown  your  face  long  since,  in  Craw- 
ford's time,  as  I  told  you  persistently,  and  Janet 
too.  You  have  to  come  to  the  scratch,  with  the 
fickle  foolish  people  they  are.  The  nettle  will 
tickle  always  until  you  grasp  it,  and  properly, 
which  he  is  doing  this  long  while  in  your  name. 
You  are  rapidly  growing  no  more  than  a  name 
to  them,  and  that  is  dangerous,  and  the  harder 
on  him  that  his  is  a  personality  they  are  bound 
to  love.  I  am  not  afraid  to  say  this  to  you, 
Conor.  .  .  .  He  was  never  less  demented,  I  can 
assure  you,  but  he  is  bothered  thoroughly,  and 


THE   TRUCE  163 

believes  every  breath  of  trouble  he  hears.  I  am 
not  an  optimist  myself,  but  he  is  lower  than  I 
am,  being  on  a  level  with  the  reports  that  reach 
him  by  every  idle  tongue.  It  is  his  misfortune 
that  being  quiet  he  is  good  company,  and  gets 
himself  talked  to,  and  too  much.  It  is  said  that 
Marvin  is  back  in  the  country,  and  Rochester 
that  idle  lad  along  with  him,  spreading  disaffec- 
tion to  the  soldiers,  and  anxious  to  have  you 
down.  I  believe  sincerely  there  is  nothing  in  it: 
Marvin  might  keep  that  old  grudge  of  his,  but 
Gerry  is  completely  daft.  He  has  long  had 
visions  and  what  not,  and  it  annoys  Iveagh  to 
death  how  he  hangs  about  Jamesie.  .  .  .  Lately 
it  seems  he  has  inspired  his  sister  in  his  interest, 
at  least  from  Katie  the  slut  she  has  become  Kath- 
leen (so  the  boy  himself  told  me)  and  does  the 
prophetess  to  such  an  extent  that  she  neglects  the 
child.  She  has  been  injured  by  the  English, 
you  will  observe,  such  that  the  allegory  would 
be  complete  to  admiration,  were  it  not  that  most 
of  the  neighbours  know  she  was  willing  enough. 
As  for  there  being  room  for  you,  you  need  not 
question  it,  so  far  as  concerns  him.  He  is  being 
daily  as  disagreeable  as  he  can  manage,  and  he 
flings  snubs  abroad  by  the  handful  whenever  he 


1 64  JAMESIE 

does  me  the  honour  to  ride  out  with  me.  But 
what 's  the  good  of  it  with  a  child  like  that  at 
the  back  of  him?  With  the  likeness  to  your 
father  he  carries,  and  the  little  sweet  tongue  of 
him,  and  the  love  of  beast  and  man  to  boot? 
Come  along,  shirker,  come  out  of  that  army  you 
are  so  fond  of.  Do  not  let  your  wife  or  new 
child  or  anything  keep  you  from  your  plain 
duty  here. 

Love  to  her  and  believe  me 
Yours 

J.  C.  BYRNE. 

[This  impetuous  apostrophe,  from  a  man  the 
family  respected,  had  its  natural  consequence. 
Wickford  got  away  for  as  long  as  he  wanted 
with  shameful  ease,  and  enjoyed  a  little  holiday 
on  the  farther  shore.  A  dramatic  interlude.] 

Jamesie,  answering  Shere,  punctual  as  ever. 

DEAR  CAPT.  LD  SHERE 

Thank  you  for  the  Card  with  the  Cannon. 
We  have  had  a  shooting  here,  a  real  one.  Uncle 
Wick  had  stayed  behind,  talking  about  Kitch- 
ener to  Col.  Hamilton.  We  were  in  the  cart.  I 
was  driving.  Father  told  me  to  hold  him,1  and 

1  The  horse. 


THE   TRUCE  165 

he  would  clear  the  way  round  the  Unlucky 
Corner,  because  some  times  there  are  stones.  So 
he  pretended  I  think.  And  next  there  were  3 
shots,  real,  I  heard  them.  And  the  Horse 
wanted  to  see  what  was  hapening.  So  we  went 
on,  and  there  he  was  in  the  road !  And  he  woaed 
because  Father  put  his  arm  up  lukily.  I 
could  n't  have  him  stopt1  And  I  saw  the  Bleed- 
ing. Lukily  Uncle  Wick  came  then,  and  said  I 
must  drive  on  and  tell  them.  So  I  did,  and  there 
was  nobody  at  the  Farm!  It  was  horubly  dark 
there.  So  I  went  on  a  "  long,  long  Way  "  to 
Glentooly,  and  there  was  a  Doctor  staying  there. 
And  he  was  in  Uniform,  but  he  had  time  for  us. 
So  he  came  with  me.  And  he  knew  Father  he 
said.  So  that  was  all  Right.  Don't  you  like  this 
intrusting  letter?  With  Salute 

Yours  truly 

J.  C.  Sum. 

Shere  to  Wickford,  telegram  from  France. 

Where  are  you?    What  is  up?     Have  they 
been  gun-running  in  your  country? 

I 


i66  JAMESIE 

Cardew  to  Janet,  telegram  from  France. 

What  is  this  Jamesie  tells  Jack  of  shooting? 
Is  Suir  hurt? 

Francis  to  Herbert,  postcard  from  France. 

Do  I  understand  from  Tim  Lord  Iveagh  is 
hurt?  I  hope  not  serious. 

Tim  to  Mary  Geoghan,  postcard  from  France. 

Your  last  produced  a  shandy-dan,  let  us  have 
some  more  of  it  for  the  sake  of  love.  We  had 
been  yawning  here. 

Judge  Byrne  to  Janet,  telegram  from  Dublin. 

Conor  is  quite  well,  has  telephoned  me. 
Iveagh  wounded  slightly.  Discredit  all  print 
till  we  write. 

Wickford  to  Janet,  telegram  from  Castle 
Wickford. 

Get  Bess  to  come  here  and  bother  Mother. 
He  is  worked  out. 


THE   TRUCE  167 

Janet  to  the  Dowager,  telegram  from  London. 

Accident  Ireland,  not  serious.  Doctor  wants 
Bess.  Have  sent  Kitchin  to  replace  till  further 
orders.  Am  writing. 

Wickford  to  the  interviewer,  verbal  message. 

Make  it  clear,  if  you  must,  that  the  matter  is 
long  known  to  us,  the  man  a  keeper  dismissed  for 
dishonesty.  It  is  an  entirely  private  affair. 

The  Greatest  of  the  Morning  Papers,  paragraph. 

The  Duke  of  Wickford  was  shot  at  on  Satur- 
day, while  on  a  flying  visit  to  his  Irish  estate. 
That  the  attempt  was  prompted  by  an  active 
political  agency,  sustained  by  enemy  funds  and 
propaganda,  is  denied.  It  is  said  to  be  the  out- 
come of  a  private  grievance.  Two  individuals 
suspected  by  the  police  are  in  custody. 

The  Dowager  to  the  Duchess,  telegram  from 
Boulogne. 

Very  well,  shall  have  to  come  to  London  on 
short  leave.  Warn  Wickford. 


1 68  JAMESIE 

The  same,  to  the  Duke,  by  letter. 

Very  well,  a  single  explanation  would  do.  I 
really  have  no  need  of  such  flocks  of  excuses 
from  you  and  Janet.  One  would  think  I  was  a 
tyrant,  and  unaware  of  the  duties  marriage  en- 
tails. It  is  perfectly  right  of  Elizabeth  to  go,  if 
Iveagh  requires  her;  and  your  supporting  the 
demand  would  make  it  the  less  avoidable,  natur- 
ally. I  am  far  less  inclined  than  you  seem  to 
think  to  find  fault  with  Elizabeth,  who  has 
proved  herself  a  remarkably  reliable  girl. 
About  the  child,  too,  she  really  has  a  grievance. 
It  is  extraordinary  of  Iveagh  to  take  him  away 
from  her  and  his  education  for  so  long.  Break- 
ing a  child's  habits  in  that  way,  apart  from  all 
other  drawbacks,  is  neither  in  accordance  with 
my  principles,  nor  with  those  of  your  wife. 
James  would  be  much  better  quietly  in  London, 
either  with  Janet,  whose  Nurse  is  trustworthy, 
or  with  Elizabeth,  who  has  plenty  of  time  for 
her  own  affairs.  Even  in  this  moment  of  Na- 
tional need,  I  should  not  ask  all  a  young  married 
woman's  time,  that  is  ridiculous.  There  was  a 
rush  of  course  at  first,  but  lifelong  principles, 
especially  at  my  age,  are  not  easily  obliterated. 
Please  give  Elizabeth  the  enclosed,  containing  a 


THE   TRUCE  169 

question  or  two  about  the  bales,  which  Miss 
Kitchin  is  unable  to  answer.  I  should  like  to 
be  sure  of  her  at  her  London  address  by  Wed- 
nesday, if  that  is  not  asking  the  impossible.  You 
I  fear  I  shall  miss  at  this  rate,  since  I  only  have 
the  two  days.  It  is  tiresome  about  Iveagh's 
knee,  I  suppose  that  will  put  him  off  again.1 
How  on  earth  did  he  manage  to  do  it,  unless 
he  was  playing  football  with  his  gun?  He  al- 
ways did  have  the  most  outlandish  accidents. 

The  Duchess,  to  the  same,  carried  all  unaware 
by  Lady  Iveagh. 

No,  dear,  stay  a  little,  it  will  make  her  hap- 
pier. We  are  so  absurdly  shy,  coming  into  the 
colony,  and  would  like,  please,  to  get  behind 
you.  Besides,  it  is  the  fair  return.  I  can  do 
your  mother  perfectly.  Stay,  unless  of  course 
you  find  yourself  too  dreadfully  out  of  it,  then 
come  back  to  us.  Too  sweet  she  is  —  when  I 
called  her  and  said  I  had  cleared  everything  out 
of  the  path  for  ten  days,  she  turned  as  pink  as  a 
—  bride.  Though  of  course  dreadfully  busi- 
ness-like. Now  she  will  nurse  him,  with  pro- 
priety, and  both  will  have  such  a  nice  time,  get- 

1  From  service. 


170  JAMESIE 

ting  round  you,  and  both,  for  the  look  of  the 
thing,  would  so  much  sooner  you  were  there.  O 
sweet  and  lovely  wall!  Are  n't  you?  Now  say 
I  don't  know  them. 

JANET. 

[I  got  the  scenery  —  what  du  Frettay  calls 
the  decoration —  of  Wickford's  play  out  of  Bess, 
who  came  back  after  the  stated  ten  days,  and 
resumed  work,  demurely.  I  intercepted  her  as 
soon  as  I  could  —  I  think  it  was  in  a  tea-shop. 
She  was  looking  well  —  well  is  a  good  word : 
and  unprofessional,  surprisingly.  To  anyone 
who  valued  her  on  the  serious  side,  as  the  Dow- 
ager did,  such  a  change  must  have  been  painful.] 

"  Have  you  got  Jamesie?  "  I  started  natur- 
ally. 

"  Not  yet,"  said  Bess.    "  I  applied  for  him." 

"  Weren't  your  papers  in  order?  "  I  said  with 
sympathy.  "  I  say,  why  not  try  your  marriage 
lines?  I  ought  to  tell  you,  Bess,  your  mother- 
in-law  has  been  in  town." 

"  No!  "  Bess  looked  humble  at  once.  "  Has 
she,  St.  John?" 

"  Rather  —  looking  for  you.  Do  you  mean 
they  never  told  you?  She  was  surprised  to  find 


THE   TRUCE  171 

so  many  of  her  own  telegrams.  She  worried 
Miss  Kitchin  like  a  rat,  and  she  kept  on  wonder- 
ing where  Wickford  was.  She  had  an  idea, 
when  she  came  over,  her  leave  crossed  with  his." 

Bess  glanced  at  me.  She  was  wearing  her 
Red  Cross  expression  in  honour  of  her  mother- 
in-law,  which  was  very  clever. 

"  Did  you  explain?  "  she  said. 

"Well — as  I  could.  Which  did  you  walk 
out  with?" 

"  I  did  n't,"  said  Bess.  "  I  stayed  at  home. 
Mine  can't  walk,  to  call  walking." 

"  Can't  he?  Why  not.  I  thought  Marvin 
shot  him  in  the  arm." 

"  So  he  did  —  clean  through.  The  most  beau- 
tiful thing,"  said  Bess  with  sudden  enthusiasm, 
"  you  ever  saw."  She  sobered.  "  But  he  kicked 
his  own  gun  in  falling,  and  landed  the  charge  in 
the  other  knee ;  at  least,  that  is  what  Wickford 
says.  He  says  he  lit  a  little  flash  and  burnt  him- 
self. You  may  take  it  either  way.  Anyhow  he 
fell  over  several  rocks,  which  habitually  strew 
the  road;  and  the  result  of  it  all  is  — well  — 

"  Not  beautiful."  I  grimaced  involuntarily. 
"  Duller  for  you,  let 's  say." 

"  It  was  horridly  dull.    I  might  n't  touch  it," 


172  JAMESIE 

"  Did  he  hit  you?  "  Bess  nodded.  Then  she 
looked  aside.  I  saw  I  should  have  to  make  an 
effort  to  get  further.  She  does  not  tell  me  much 
about  Iveagh  ever,  and  I  doubt  if  she  says  a  word 
about  me  to  him.  She  is  an  eminently  cautious 
girl. 

"  There  was  nothing  for  me,  then,"  I  sug- 
gested, gazing  at  my  notebook,  which  I  had  laid 
beside  me  on  the  tea-shop  table.  She  knows 
about  it,  as  Francis  does. 

"  I  am  afraid  not,  St.  John,"  said  Bess,  turn- 
ing over  her  private  knowledge.  "  It  was  n't 
War.  There  was  not  a  touch  of  khaki  in  it  any- 
where —  except  Wickford's  cap." 

"  What  had  Wickford's  cap  to  do  with  it?  " 

"  It  was  part  of  the  pretending.  Ask  Jamesie." 

"  Bess,  you  are  a  tiresome  girl!  I  believe  you 
have  been  having  the  time  of  your  life,  with  the 
two  of  them,  in  that  divine  place.  It  is  divine, 
is  n't  it?" 

"  Heavenly.  I  saw  the  place  where  it  all 
happened  —  extremely  paintable,  all  in  crooks. 
A  crooked  wall  comes  down  to  a  crooked  road, 
which  crosses  a  crooked  gully  by  a  broken 
bridge.  Not  quite  so  broken  as  it  was  in  their 
father's  time,  Wick  said  they  had  begun  to  mend 


THE   TRUCE  173 

it.  But  it  was  n't  very  safe,  and  there  was  a  nice 
sign-post  suggesting  that  motors  should  go  back, 
and  round  by  the  road.  I  don't  suppose  the 
warning  had  ever  been  necessary,  but  it  was 


nice." 


"  Thank  you,"  I  said.  "  At  least  I  am  getting 
on  a  little." 

"  They  call  it,"  Bess  pursued,  "  The  Unlucky 
Corner.  They  all  used  to  leap  the  wall  there, 
apparently  for  the  pleasure  of  coming  off.  It 
would  have  been  instant  death,  with  the  gully  in 
front  unguarded,  for  any  but  my  husband's  fam- 
ily. It  made  me  perfectly  ill  to  think  of  Jamesie 
trying  it.  But  he  is  considered  too  young." 

"  I  am  glad  of  that,"  I  said.  Bess  drew  in 
again,  after  her  unusual  excursion.  "  It  sounds 
a  little  awkward,"  I  suggested. 

"  It  is,  a  little.  You  have  to  turn  in  the  air, 
like  a  circus,  if  you  want  to  get  all  four  legs  of 
your  horse  to  fit  the  road.  The  stones,  always 
in  new  places,  make  it  more  interesting.  As  a 
rule,  only  mine  managed  it.  What  happened  to 
the  others  he  did  not  say.  I  suppose,"  said  Bess, 
dreamily,  "  it  was  by  old  habit  he  expected  an 
accident  there." 

"Oh,  he  did,  did  he?    Is  yours  superstitious?" 


174  JAMESIE 

"  Iveagh?  Frightfully."  She  looked  at  me, 
and  closed  up  again. 

"  Hum.  So  he  expected  it.  Invited  it,  pos- 
sibly —  in  Wickford's  cap." 

"Oh,  St.  John!  What  have  you  been 
reading?  " 

"  Jamesie's  letter  to  Francis.  He  lost  Fran- 
cis's new  number,  and  sent  it  here." 

"  Then  I  shan't  talk,"  said  Bess,  with  a  bright 
idea,  "  to  people  who  read  private  letters." 

And  she  did  not.    That  was  the  end  of  it. 

Jamesle,  to  Francis. 

["  Been  "  the  best  expression  of  seven-year- 
old  rapture  I  ever  read.  Evidently  Suir,  when 
he  could  do  it,  did  it  thoroughly.] 

I  will  tell  you  a  Joke,  as  good  as  yours.  Pres- 
ently I  will.  Now  I  have  seen  him  (because  I 
have)  its  getting  funier  and  funier  until  I  simply 
Had  to  turn  headoverheels  in  a  place  [Blot.] 
There  now  there  's  a  good  bit  of  Sand  in  my 
hair.  Well  its  about  our  Shooting.  You  heard 
all  that  stuff.  Well  he  did  pretend,  in  Uncle 
Wick's  Army  *  Cap !  He  told  me  as  an  Awful 

1  See  below. 


THE   TRUCE  175 

Secret.  They  would  n't  if  he  hadnt,  I  told  him 
squeesing  and  he  believed.  And  fetching  the 
Doctor  was  a  Score  for  us  he  said  all  that.  Oh 
dear  I  did  laugf.  I  was  afraid  he  would  be 
diferent  but  he  never  is.  Uncle  Wick  is  been 
fater  but  he  isnt.  This  is  a  horuble  Sandy  Let- 
ter this  time  cant  be  helped.  Goodbye  dear 
Francis. 

JAMESIE. 

[Francis  sent  this  letter  back  to  me  for  ad- 
miration, never  guessing  I  could  have  opened 
it  en  route :  so  that  I  had  a  chance  of  studying  it 
a  second  time.  I  think  —  I  speak  open  to  cor- 
rection —  the  fact  that  the  cap  so  used  was 
Army  was  a  large  part  of  the  joke,  to  Jamesie. 
He  shared  with  Kells,  and  most  other  children 
of  the  period,  an  awestricken  veneration  for  the 
outer  symbols  of  war.  It  was,  among  other  de- 
lightful things,  incredibly  impertinent  of  his 
father  to  use  that  cap.  His  references  to  the 
"  doctor  in  uniform  "  convey  the  same  attitude 
to  the  official  world:  an  attitude  which,  by  the 
way,  backs  up  du  Frettay's  contention  that 
Jamesie  was  not  Irish,  internally. 

I  proceed  to  what  may  be  called  the  practical 
witnesses,  the  Duke  and  the  Doctor.] 


176  JAMESIE 

St.  John  Herbert,  to  the  doctor  in  question. 

DEAR  ASHWIN, 

I  do  not  want  to  waste  your  time,  since  I 
hear  you  are  just  starting.  Are  the  following 
details  correct  as  to  Jamesie  Suir's  part  in  what 
Wickford  calls  the  "  play  "  in  Ireland?  Am  I 
lifting  him  to  the  heroic  place  unnecessarily? 
I  want  to  keep  proportion,  if  it  is  ever  possible 
in  that  blessed  land. 

Yours  etc. 

The  doctor,  to  Herbert. 

DEAR  HERBERT, 

You  cannot  exalt  Jamesie  too  much  for  me. 
It  was  a  firstclass  feat,  because  he  was  fright- 
ened. He  was  aware  of  the  risks,  and  still  he 
did  the  job,  which  another  child  would  not.  He 
must  have  driven  five  miles,  alone  with  a  strong 
horse,  on  a  vile  road,  in  dense  shadow  and  thin 
moonlight  alternately.  I  did  it  just  after  him, 
so  I  could  reckon  the  chances  exactly.  When 
John  and  I  went  out  to  him,  he  was  terrified, 
and  in  tears ;  but  he  gave  me  his  uncle's  messages 
lucidly,  and  entreated  to  show  me  the  way. 
From  the  minute  he  heard  I  was  a  doctor,  he 


THE   TRUCE  177 

held  on  to  me  tight.  The  women  wanted  to 
keep  him  at  Glentooly.  I  took  him,  of  course, 
and  got  the  chief  part  of  the  history  out  of  him 
as  we  drove.  The  duke  is  a  singularly  poor 
hand  at  a  tourniquet  —  perhaps  for  a  duke  not 
singular  —  so  we  were  at  the  bridge  none  too 
soon.  The  rest  of  your  details  are  all  right. 
John  was  witness  to  the  scene  on  the  Glentooly 
drive,  good  enough  for  any  novel.  Apply  to 
him  rather  than  the  women  about  Jamesie.  I 
am  fairly  satisfied  with  young  Suir,  but  would 
rag  him  longer  if  I  had  time.  Do  not  ask  him 
for  my  character.  I  hope  the  board  will  settle 
him,  when  he  gets  there,  and  teach  him  his  place 
in  the  scheme  of  things.  But  I  have  small  hope 
of  it,  "  pistonne  "  as  he  is.  I  am  thankful  to  be 
out  of  such  rubbish.1  Goodbye  till  the  war 's 
over. 

Yours. 
C.  C.  A. 

[I  applied,  as  advised,  to  Ingestre.  I  gave 
him  a  broad  hint,  like  Ashwin,  to  give  me  facts 
and  keep  off  philosophy,  but  as  will  be  seen,  he 
barely  managed  it.  He  was  wounded,  after  a 
fair  dose,  which  may  account.  I  think,  by  in- 

1  Medical  boards. 


178  JAMESIE 

ternal  evidence,  Suir  must  have  fagged  for  him 
at  Eton.] 

John  Ingestre  Esq.,  to  Herbert. 

Rather  —  the  best  apparition  you  ever  saw. 
All  in  the  Irish  moonlight,  against  a  pitch-black 
pile  of  trees.  He  fell  into  the  middle  of  dinner, 
and  turned  us  all  out  to  admire  him.  He  had 
no  use  for  us,  though,  only  for  Ashwin.  Do 
you  want  a  description  of  Suir  minimus?  No. 
He  was  crying,  but  not  a  bit  confused.  We  got 
his  heredity  right  after  the  doctor  was  gone,  and 
while  the  car  was  appearing.  Father  started  in 
character  by  observing  Iveagh  had  no  right  to 
have  a  son  of  the  age.  I  proved  by  Eton  dates 
Iveagh  was  welcome  to,  if  he  chose,  and  disap- 
pointed Father.  Then  they  proceeded  to  the 
bilge  Crawford  put  about  London  as  to  Suir 
minor  being  a  Sinn  Fenian,  and  having  refused 
to  enlist.  So  I  settled  that,  being  on  the  subject, 
and  disappointed  them  again.  I  let  Father  and 
Major  Burge  unload  the  stuff  they  had  accumu- 
lated first,  the  women  listening,  religiously. 
Women  are  so  religious  in  this  war,  in  the  sense 
of  wanting  to  believe  the  indecently  improbable. 
Don't  tell  my  wife  I  said  that.  Anyhow  after 


THE   TRUCE  179 

that  they  listened  just  as  religiously  to  me. 
Since  I  have  'been  out  they  do,  that  is  the  beauty 
of  it.  Besides,  I  like  Iveagh,  sulky  little  beast, 
and  he  always  admired  me  extremely.  He  is 
exactly  fitted  at  this  moment  to  be  king  of  Con- 
naught,  and  live  in  a  cave.  Suir  minimus  would 
do  him  proud  as  an  heir-apparent,  would  n't  he? 
Father  said  he  was  sorry  finally,  Major  Burge 
did  not,  which  proves  all  sorts  of  things.  Any- 
how he  is  not  the  new  army.  I  took  the  car  to 
the  Unlucky  Corner,  a  place  I  remember  pain- 
fully. Iveagh's  custom  was  to  show  his  guests 
the  way  over,  at  fourteen  years  old.  I  did  not 
get  the  car  quite  to  it,  certainly,  but  I  got  within 
hearing:  then  I  blew  my  horn  at  intervals  for 
Ashwin's  edification.  Finally  he  joined  me, 
looking  pretty  fierce,  with  Suir  minor,  that  is 
mine,  and  the  Duke  in  his  shirt-sleeves.  He  had 
taken  off  his  tunic  not  to  frighten  the  kid. 
(Minimus  was  in  the  cart,  during  these  per- 
formances.) "  It's  like  Cain  I  am,"  the  Duke 
observed  to  me  pleasantly  (I  think  he  did)  —  I 
had  n't  come  across  him  since  Eton.  I  said  he 
was  worse  than  the  corpse,  and  I  could  n't  admit 
him  into  Father's  car.  He  was  ready  to  play 
the  ass  as  well,  with  relief.  You  see  he  had 


i8o  JAMESIE 

never  known,  for  a  whole  hour,  at  what  point 
Marvin  might  not  resuscitate  amid  the  ferns, 
and  shoot  again.  No  fun  for  him.  .  .  .  Asses 
they  are,  blighters,  not  even  able  to  shoot  a  duke 
down.  Oh  Lord,  it 's  Ireland  all  over  that.  No 
one  w«uld  have  regretted  Wickford.  Not  that 
he  is  a  bad  fellow,  but  another  of  the  same  sort 
would  have  done  as  well.  You  have  only  to 
tack  a  title  to  him,  send  him  to  France  which  is 
the  fashion,  and  get  somebody  to  brush  his  hair. 
Like  Alice  in  Wonderland.1 

I  haven't  any  more,  of  moment.  Oh  yes,  I 
forgot  to  say  Gerry  Rochester  got  in  later  to 
Glentooly,  a  bad  second  to  Suir  minimus,  and 
was  received  tenderly  by  the  girls.  They  gave 
him  my  dinner,  mine,  and  he  finished  all  the 
whisky.  When  I  said  he  was  a  criminal,  a  con- 
niver  at  manslaughter,  together  with  a  maniac, 
they  were  incredulous,  or  indifferent.  They 
said  he  was  "  so  Irish."  There  you  are.  Eng- 
lish sentiment  has  been  the  ruin  of  this  country, 
not  Irish,,  they  have  n't  any.  All  the  drivel  in 
their  modern  literature,  which  is  largely  drivel, 
we  have  mixed  in.  No  wonder  they  want  to  get 
rid  of  us.  ... 

1  I  asked  Ingestre  to  explain  this,  but  he  forgot. 


THE   TRUCE  181 

The  Duke,  to  Judge  Byrne. 

[Note  —  Anyone  who  likes  may  skip  the  fol- 
lowing, which  is  merely  the  facts.  As  a  per- 
sonality, Ingestre  truly  says,  nobody  would  miss 
Wickford.  I  thank  thee,  Ingestre,  for  teaching 
me  that  word.  It  must  be  why  my  instinct  is  to 
leave  out  most  of  his  letters. 

S.  H.] 

MY  DEAR  BYRNE, 

We  were  both  wrong  and  he  right:  this  by 
way  of  prologue  before  I  answer  your  telegram. 

He  is  anything  but  killed,  and  contented  to 
have  got  round  me,  only  in  great  pain  from  his 
knee.  Marvin  shot  him  clean  through  the  left 
shoulder,  how  near  extinction  I  dare  not  think, 
and  falling  he  got  mixed  with  his  own  gun, 
which  he  had  steadied  against  the  bridge,  so  as 
to  pepper  the  other  leg.  To  make  all  complete 
he  jarred  the  same  knee  badly  as  he  went  over, 
complicating  what  might  else  have  been  an  easy 
case,  easy  I  mean  considering  he  was  aimed  at 
by  Marvin  and  himself,  both  very  tidy  marks- 
men, in  the  course  of  a  single  night.  I  did  not 
observe  the  lower  details  at  the  time,  being  fully 
concerned  to  stop  the  bleeding  above,  which  I 
did  not  specially  succeed  in  as  I  lack  the  first-aid 


1 82  JAMESIE 

tricks  every  kid  of  fourteen  knows  now.  My 
sister-in-law,  just  arrived,  is  grieved  at  my  igno- 
rance, and  Ashwin  stronger  than  grieved.  In- 
deed it  is  a  pity  for  the  boy,  since  he  cannot  spare 
it,  being  already  worked  out  with  my  business 
as  you  said.  I  thought  as  sure  as  I  write  this  I 
should  have  him  dead  on  my  hands  before  the 
doctor  came.  I  would  very  probably  have  killed 
Marvin  in  my  rage,  only  Rochester,  realising 
the  mistake,  did  me  the  favour  of  knocking  him 
out  with  the  butt  of  the  gun.  After  which  util- 
ity, Gerry  turned  to  helping  me  as  much  as  a 
half-bake  can  help.  Such  are  our  conspirators 
in  this  forgotten  country. 

As  for  the  little  play  on  the  bridge,  I  will 
make  no  remarks  as  you  know  Iveagh.  So  far 
as  I  can  pick  up  from  Jamesie  (himself  being 
useless  and  scorning  my  natural  emotion)  it  was 
a  bit  of  sheer  divilment  of  the  old  sort.  He  was 
driven  by  the  great  need  to  prove  me  wrong. 
I  had  been  mocking  him  at  the  station  about 
Marvin,  and  to  Jamesie's  face,  which  was  rash 
of  me.  He  said  little,  though  while  we  drove  I 
saw  he  was  looking  about.  We  had  (what  was 
twice  over  a  providence)  a  quiet  horse,  chosen  to 
instruct  Jim  in  driving.  With  the  kind  of  ani- 


THE   TRUCE  183 

mal  Iveagh  chooses  for  himself,  we  should  have 
been  utterly  done.  Hamilton  crossed  us  at  the 
turn  to  Dunshaden,  and  exclaimed  at  me.  I  got 
down  to  speak  to  him.  Iveagh  let  the  child 
drive  on,  since  the  light  was  bad,  and  there 
might  be  stones  at  the  corner.  At  least,  that  was 
his  excuse.  Since,  I  am  certain  he  reckoned,  if 
an  accident  happened,  on  its  happening  there. 
(He  may  also  have  reckoned  on  his  own  immu- 
nity. Set  him  up.  I  am  extremely  vexed  with 
him  still,  and  the  more  the  more  I  think.)  The 
cart  drew  up  short  of  the  corner,  as  a  fact.  Jim 
says  he  "  pretended  "  if  you  follow  that  nursery 
expression.  When  I  got  out  to  Hamilton,  I  had 
left  my  odd  clothes  in  the  cart.  My  lord  sang 
out  to  Jim  to  wait  till  his  "  father"  came,  as  he 
was  going  forward  to  look  for  stones.  He  took, 
for  this  purpose,  my  cap  on  him,  and  my  coat 
across  his  shoulder.  Likewise  I  suppose  he 
primed  his  gun,  fit  for  any  rabbits  he  should 
chance  to  see.  He  stood  on  the  bridge  to  observe 
the  scenery,  especially  in  the  bottom  of  the  glen, 
what  light  there  was  full  on  him.  There  is  no 
doubt  in  my  mind  that  he  thanked  God  when 
Marvin's  gun  spoke  out,  since  it  proved  him 
right  against  me.  That  it  went  through  his  own 


1 84  JAMESIE 

arm  was  an  after-thought.    And  he  calls  himself 
parent  to  that  nice  respectable  child! 

There  was  a  second  report,  and  the  echo,  as 
I  reckon.  You  will  find  Jim  says  three.  But 
both  the  last  were  drowned  by  Gerald's  yelling 
as  he  leapt  upon  Marvin  —  really  horrid  it  was. 
I  am  not  going  to  begin  to  account  for  Gerry's 
proceeding,  I  leave  it  to  you,  Judge,  with  your 
deep  knowledge  of  the  country,  and  my  own  dis- 
qualifications. If  Marvin  had  got  me,  I  sup- 
pose, in  his  lovely  fervour,  Gerry  would  have 
put  in  another  shot.  How  he  spotted  the  mis- 
take is  a  mystery,  unless  my  brother  spoke  or 
challenged.  That  may  be.  Anyhow,  he  downed 
the  big  keeper  in  no  time,  and  later,  Marvin 
was  quite  hard  to  find  among  the  fern.  It  is 
true,  I  heard  him  groaning  while  I  attended  to 
Iveagh,  but  I  was  singularly  uninterested.  Ex- 
cept for  Ashwin,  he  might  have  groaned  all 
night  for  me.  Personally  I  thought  it  was 
poaching,  naturally.  I  vaulted  the  wall  lower 
up *  the  road  to  get  down  to  the  scrimmage 
quickly.  I  had  been  walking  quietly  after  the 
cart.  I  half  throttled  Rochester,  dragged  him 
off  Marvin,  and  requested  politely  to  learn  what 

1  Is  this  English? 


THE   TRUCE  185 

was  the  sport.  Gerry  only  jabbered  his  rubbish, 
pointing  at  the  bridge,  which  looked  empty.  I 
can  tell  you  it  was  not  nice.  I  called,  and  Jim 
answered  me,  bless  his  little  voice.  "  Father  is 
here,  I  think  —  the  horse  has  found  him."  How 
I  got  up  to  the  bridge  do  not  ask,  for  the  gully 
in  a  bad  light  is  beastly.  Gerry  shadowed  me 
with  infernal  ease,  though  I  could  have  done 
without  him.  However,  he  was  sober  enough 
when  he  saw  the  blood,  and  had  the  sense  to 
fetch  water,  though  with  a  deliberation  that  dis- 
tracted me,  fearing  as  I  was  to  see  the  boy  go 
out  on  my  hands.  I  have  had  a  few  bad  turns  in 
France  this  winter,  but  none  approaching  it  — 
how  could  I?  And  yet  it  was  a  near  thing,  ow- 
ing to  that  cursed  exhaustion,  Ashwin  said. 

The  luck  of  getting  his  own  doctor  was  be- 
yond hope  or  wonder.  I  could  not  believe  it 
when  he  told  me  —  it  was  Iveagh  told  me,  be- 
fore he  fainted  the  second  time.  I  thought  he 
was  raving:  yet  there  was  the  probability,  not  to 
mention  even  at  the  last  gasp  it  is  he  has  all  the 
sense.  .  .  .  Ashwin  was  at  Glentooly,  for  the 
end  of  the  week,  gone  to  have  a  look  at  Ingestre's 
wound  before  he  moved  east,  there  was  the  fact, 
—  a  fluke  if  you  like.  But  barring  a  second 


1 86  JAMESIE 

fluke,  I  would  never  have  got  him,  though  I 
primed  the  idiot,  and  posted  him  off.  I  had 
already  despatched  the  child  to  the  farm.  You 
will  see  by  Jim's  account  how  he  found  the  farm 
untenanted,  and  did  not  come  back,  but  forward 
on  his  own  by  the  Glentooly  road.  How  many 
children  would  have  gone  forward,  at  that  point, 
after  the  shots,  and  in  the  darkness,  with  a  horse 
and  cart  to  manage?  How  would  my  fine  Kells 
have  figured,  in  that  situation?  I  have  a  cursed 
patronising  letter  from  Kells,  that  curled  Iveagh 
up,  but  did  not  amuse  me.  The  contrast  is 
humiliating,  as  is  the  rest  of  it.  I  am  used  to 
being  humbled,  in  this  company, — but  I  am 
glad  to  be  here.  You  were  right  to  make  me 
face  death  and  destruction  to  get  the  facts.  Are 
you  aware  his  best  friend  has  cut  him  dead  for 
six  months,  and  he  only  mentioning  it  casually, 
as  if  it  were  the  commonest  thing?  I  never 
thought  it  out  for  him,  for  an  instant,  though 
even  so,  I  doubt  if  I  would  have  spared  him. 
The  style  of  the  place,  the  way  every  blessed 
thing  is  engineered  and  under  weigh,  managed 
even  better  than  his  boasting.  That  is  him,  is  it 
not?  he  betters  his  boasting,  always:  which  is 
what  Kells  does  not. 


THE  TRUCE  187 

[The  following  suggests  that  Lady  Aileen 
was  in  clandestine  correspondence  with  her 
father's  groom.] 

DEAR  AILEEN, 

I  drove  him  5  miles  (English)  that  is  i 
mile  and  4  miles,  to  Hallorans  then  Glentooly. 
I  have  found  out  by  the  map.  He  did  pull! 
Father  says  it  is  not  Driving  to  be  Draged.  But 
I  did  really  because  once  he  wanted  not  to  seen 
Stables.  Please  tell  Tim  when  you  write  as  I 
have  no  time  for  Proper  letters. 

Your  loving 
JAMESIE. 

[The  next  called  forth  all  his  efforts.] 

DEAR  JAMESIE, 

We  should  be  glad  to  know  here  how  Lord 
Iveagh  is  if  you  have  leisure  for  a  nice  account. 

Your  affectionate 

NURSE. 
DEAR  NURSE, 

I  just  waited  a  day  because  Mother  came 
sudenly!  She  is  splendacious  in  white  with  Red 
Crosses  (Uncle  Wick  said  splendacious). 
Father  told  her  to  go  back  to  her  Militry,  but 


1 88  JAMESIE 

she  didnt.    She  is  staying  a  Week!    Time  to  see 
everything.    Oh  dear,  I  'm  glad. 

Father's  arm  is  nothing  but  his  knee  is  n't,  that 
is  a  longer  Job.  He  says  he  can't  ride  for  nuts 
and  his  Comission  will  probly  be  Cavalry.  I 
think  that  serous  and  so  does  Mother,  but  Uncle 
Wick  says  there  is  n't  any  Cavalry  now.  My 
Doctor  goes  on  coming  in  Uniform  Father 
does  n't  want  him  specially.  He  told  him  so!  ! 
I  think  that  is  enough  to  be  Court  Martialed  but 
it  is  his  knee.  Dear  Nurse  goodbye  now. 

Your  loving 
JAMESIE. 

Kells  to  the  Duke.    Unspeakably  badly  typed  on 
the  Holmer  machine. 

DEAR  FATHER, 

I  am  being  secretry  in  Miss  Kitchin's  ab- 
sense.  Mother  says  "  I  may  try."  I  frwrd  Grd- 
mother's  letter  abt  Aunt  bess.  Last  night  Aileen 
and  I  thought  of  something  good  for  uncle 
Iveagh  choosing  horses  for  the  ARMY  because 
he  does  it  well.  I  am  trying  all  the  Stops  ?  !  .  . 
with  love  — : — ; 

[KELLS.] 


THE   TRUCE  189 

The  Duke  to  Kells  —  prompt. 

MY  DEAR  SON, 

I  have  something  to  say  to  you  privately,. 
When  you  think  out  uses,  by  night,  for  my  rela- 
tions, and  wish  to  confide  in  me,  do  not  drag 
your  sister  into  it.  It  is  better  to  stand  alone. 
You  are  quite  right,  your  uncle  would  choose 
horses  for  the  army  excellently  well,  as  he  has 
done  for  his  ungrateful  nephews  before  now. 
Shall  I  tell  him,  when  he  is  better,  your  sugges- 
tion? Up  to  now  he  has  only  administered  our 
estates  (yours  in  prospect)  past  all  praising,  and 
saved  my  life.  Are  you  aware  of  this?  Is  it  of 
any  value  to  you?  Answer  this. 

Your  father, 
WlCKFORD. 

Kells  to  the  Duke,  autograph,  elegant. 
(Private.) 

DEAR  FATHER, 

(i)  Yes,  Mother  told  me.  (2)  I  am  very 
glad  he  was  instead  of  you  because  of  the  Army 
and  besides  I  am  glad  otherwise.  It  is  all  for 
the  best.  I  write  this  unknowing  to  the  children. 

Your  afectionate  son, 
KELLS. 


190  JAMESIE 

Jamesie  to  Kells. 

Uncle  Wick  didnt  laugf  at  your  letter  the 
last  time  but  Father  simply  culapsed.  Mother 
was  surprised  because  she  was  doing  him  then. 
So  she  had  to  start  again  but  she  saw  the  letter 
and  liked  it  too.  I  read  the  other  one.  You  do 
type  nicely  do  me  one  next  with  lots  of  stops. 
We  are  getting  on  Splendidly  here.  Whats  the 
other  Baby  like?  Mother  went  to  see  Katie's, 
I  took  her,  and  Katie  was  that  time  polite  only 
staring.  Of  course  that  was  the  Irst  time  she  saw 
Mother.  Love  to  Nurse  and  Biscuit  and  Aileen, 

Yours  truly, 
J.  C.  Sum  (R.I.C.,  etc.) 

M.  du  Frettay,  into  the  middle  of  all  this. 

Pourquoi  les  quatre  mille  quelquechoses  tu 
t'embusques  comme  £a? 

Iveagh,  to  M.  du  Frettay. 

Keep  it  in,  I  'm  coming.  I  might  have  to  wait 
a  little  while  till  I  have  another  leg,  and  the  girl 
has  done  playing  with  my  shoulder.  She  does 
it  very  well  considering,  but  I  doubt  if  I  could 
shoot  a  rabbit  as  yet.  Rifle-shooting  with  the 


THE   TRUCE  191 

right  arm  only  is  a  thing  I  left  out,  but  as  luck 
has  it  I  am  able  to  write,  so  you  will  get  the 
benefit.  I  suppose  you  have  an  address  these 
days,  you  give  no  sign.  Or  are  you  in  the  sky 
continuously,  and  that  is  why  your  blessings  drop 
upon  me  unsigned,  and  nothing  at  the  top  of  the 
paper?  However,  I  recognised  the  style,  so  did 
he.  I  looked  for  your  last,  or  rather  she  did, 
but  could  not  find  it,  if  it  was  ever  there  at  all. 
It  is  true  I  leave  the  things  in  the  office  about  a 
bit,  as  she  observes,  but  only  so  as  to  fall  under 
my  eye  when  I  want  them.  So  I  send  this  by 
way  of  your  people,  with  Jim's. 

Come  down  a  little  to  see  me,  when  I  am  in 
Paris,  because  the  chances  are  I  will  have  some 
time  off,  the  sort  of  thing  he  is  getting  me.  We 
had  just  been  settling,  when  your  compliments 
came,  for  the  next  year  or  so  none  of  us  will  have 
much  to  do.  The  girl  means  to  come  over  too, 
being  overworked  by  my  mother  in  London. 
We  have  talked  it  out,  since  she  is  here,  and 
agreed  for  the  boy's  education  it  would  be  ad- 
visable. It  is  a  pity  for  him  to  stick  too  long  in 
one  place,  even  if  the  place  is  a  good  one.  He 
has  got  on  a  bit  here.  He  rides  as  well  as  most 
kids,  and  drives  quite  decently.  I  would  not 


192  JAMESIE 

have  time  though  these  next  months  to  see  to 
him,  so  she  will  do  it.  And  Gabriel,  see  here. 
Let  your  mother  not  let  on  to  my  mother  if  the 
shopping-places  in  Paris  are  better  than  in  Lon- 
don, because  that  would  dish  us  entirely,  Bess 
would  be  roped  in  again.  There  are  things  now 
you  can't  refuse,  I  mean  if  you  are  a  woman. 
He  or  I  would  send  Mother  to  glory  if  she 
fagged  us  that  way,  but  she  cannot.  Wickford's 
wife  herself  has  had  a  struggle  of  it.  Well,  ow- 
ing to  these  outside  things,  Bess  has  had  to  stay 
at  pen's  length  of  us  the  entire  winter.1  It  is  not 
natural  for  a  boy  the  age  Jim  is,  I  saw  how  he 
met  her  this  time,  and  I  have  had  enough  of  it. 
I  want  my  wife  now  for  my  purposes.  She  can 
help  in  the  hospitals,  if  she  wants  to,  that  is  her 
own  look-out.  But  my  mother  overdoes  things, 
you  may  remember,  especially  at  the  first  go-off; 
and  she  expects  all  women  she  meets  to  be  as 
bustling  (erased)  as  busy  as  herself. 

The  Duke,  to  the  same. 

[As  I  guess,  previous  to  the  last,  since  the 
Duke  dates  his  letters.] 

1  Cf.  his  mother's  opinions. 


THE   TRUCE  193 

Will  you  shut  it,  du  Frettay,  chucking  your 
insults  about  the  place?  I  tell  you  he  is  simply 
not  fit  to  stand  the  sort  of  thing.  It  was  himself 
informed  me  you  were  jesting,  or  you  would 
have  heard  of  it.  I  am  a  little  concerned  in  this, 
you  notice,  being  responsible.  He  turned  as 
white  as  you  please,  and  frightened  Bess:  and 
he  took  good  care  to  observe  it  was  foolery  be- 
fore he  handed  it  to  me.  Just  as  well,  for  the 
joke,  in  my  judgment,  is  not  a  good  one.  I 
would  have  thought  you  had  learnt,  by  now,  it 
is  easy  to  say  things  which  it  is  better  not  to 
write,  and  especially  not  upon  a  postcard. 
However,  if  you  care  to  know  the  rights  of  this. 
.  .  .  [He  proceeds  to  relate,  somewhat  more 
baldly  than  to  Byrne,  the  contents  of  this  sec- 
tion.] Iveagh  will  never  tell  you  himself,  so  I 
had  better  do  it.  The  truth  is,  I  should  not  have 
thought  it  necessary,  if  I  had  not  seen  that  card. 
And  I  should  not  have  seen  the  card  if  he  could 
have  concealed  it,  or  rather  the  shock  it  made. 
So  now  you  know  my  ideas.  .  .  .  Do  not  believe 
the  papers,  English  least  of  all,  on  the  subject  of 
Ireland.  Wait  till  I  find  you,  wherever  it  next 
happens  to  be,  and  I  will  inform  you  myself, 
can  take  his  opinions,  but  salt  them  well, 


i94  JAMESIE 

for  he  has  not  half  my  reading.  He  goes,  in 
political  matters,  generally  speaking,  on  what 
he  and  Jamesie  pick  up  at  the  Fair.  .  .  . 

M.  du  Frettay,  at  leisure,  to  Wick  ford. 

Ce  n'est  pas  embetant  ce  que  vous  me  racontez 
la.  C'est  chicment  plus  amusant  que  ce  qu'on 
presente  de  mon  cote,  egalement  lugubre  et 
fade.  .  .  . 

M.  du  Frettay,  immediately,  to  Iveagh. 

MON  CHER  PETIT, 

It  is  true?  Thou  occupiest  thyself,  as 
Wickford  has  just  told  me,  in  crocking1  thy 
knee  of  the  perfect  rider,  by  dint  of  constituting 
thyself  sole  guardian  of  his  interests  against  a 
swarm  of  emissaries  boches?  It  must  be  truth, 
since  the  Daily  Mail  sustains  me  in  the  sublime 
supposition.  You  will  shortly  come  and  recount 
all  that  to  me,  will  you  not,  without  the  ordinary 
interpolations  of  your  elder  brother,  whose  re- 
stricted outlook  always  did  fatigue  us.  Show 
him  this,  that  he  may  see,  until  I  have  time  to 
write  to  him,  how  little  I  value  his  high  moral- 

1  Fouler. 


THE   TRUCE  195 

ity,  compared  with  the  vigorous  truths  culled 
by  you  in  the  agricultural  reunions,  and  daz- 
zlingly  expressed  by  Jamesie  to  my  niece  Denise. 
I  find  that  little  green  goose  of  a  Denise,  by  the 
way,  poseuse  like  the  majority  of  her  kind,  has 
not  done  your  son  the  honour  to  reply  to  him 
lately.  Whence  this  idea  arrived  to  her  —  pos- 
sibly at  the  school  she  frequents  —  it  is  useless 
to  inquire,  but  by  way  of  my  mother  I  have  re- 
proached her  briskly  for  her  laziness.  Not  that 
Jamesie  gains  much  by  her  snobbish  letters. 
Sapristi,  the  education  of  our  girls!  .  .  .  Let 
my  Lady  Bess  come  soon,  for  so  long  past  my 
mother  has  needed  her:  and  observe,  the  third 
floor  flat  where  my  library  is  housed  stands  now 
untenanted.  Parbleu,  she  might  even  dust  my 
books!  This  occurs  to  my  pen,  as  I  write,  but 
do  not  tell  her,  merely  our  most  graceful  mes- 
sages. Seriously,  it  would  be  a  solace  to  me  to 
know  my  mother  under  her  eye,  since  she  frets  I 
fear,  in  secret.  Enfin,  since  we  all  want  her  as 
soon  as  we  think  of  her,  let  her  arrive,  and  rap- 
idly: but  do  not  stay  yourself,  for  the  love  of 
Heaven,  upon  a  hot  terrestrial  horse!  No,  no, 
you  are  too  good  for  it.  Come  up,  it  is  the  only 
way,  I  assure  you,  to  be  cool,  and  to  see  things. 


196  JAMESIE 

This  European  occurrence  is  large,  as  it  were 
voluminous.  As  an  artistic  ensemble,  you  get 
nothing  whatever  from  down  below.  Accept 
the  presentation  of  Wickford,  naturally,  and 
together  with  it  as  many  good  horses  as  he  will 
give  you.  Stay  there  a  month  or  two  for  cour- 
tesy's sake,  then  make  a  fuss 1  about  some  detail 
in  the  equipment,  exchange,  and  come  up  with 
me.  Not  with  me,  precisely,  but  parallel.  We 
are  more  separated,  alas,  by  this  new  regime, 
than  we  were  of  old.  But  at  least  you  know  the 
elements.  And  what  the  devil  is  the  good  of  a 
duke  for  a  brother,  if  you  may  not  choose  your- 
self your  occupation?  In  the  aristocratic  con- 
stitution of  your  imperial  army  you  are  certain, 
with  such  backing,  and  an  expletive  or  two,  to 
have  what  you  want.  It  is  not  even  as  though 
we  were  up  to  date,  we  have  gone  back  centuries. 
You  have  but  to  eat  the  filthy  food  they  give  us 
here  to  be  certain  of  that.  Invite  me  to  your 
popote  or  whatever  it  is  if  you  see  a  chance  of 
contiguity.  Having  heard  something  of  your 
commissariat  arrangements,  I  am  all  for  the 
Understanding  in  the  question  of  food.  I  em- 
brace as  many  of  you  as  will  accept  it,  or  as  you 

1  ReclamiT. 


THE   TRUCE  197 

yourself  will  allow  me  to  embrace.  This  I  think 
takes  aim  *  at  the  entire  family  as  at  present 
assembled. 

Thine  always, 
G.  DU  F. 

Jamesie,  to  Sophie. 

CHERE  SOPHIE, 

Vous  serez  intresse  a  savoir  que  nous  aliens 
en  France.  Quel  domage  que  vous  ne  venez 
pas  voir  Francis!  Pas  justice  qu'  une  Famille 
Anglaise  va  et  non  vous.  Mother  dit,  avez-vous 
Messages  ou  n'importe  chose,  ou  si  votre  Poilu- 
frere  a  Permision  voulait  il  venir  nous  voir? 
Moi  deja  j'invite  Francis  mais  il  dit  Permisions 
Frangais  a  Paris  sont  plus  commune.  Faut  con- 
naisser  beaucoup  de  Generals  comme  Father 
pour  avoir  1'autre.  C'est  domage,  n'est  ce  pas? 
Denise  n'est  pas  Colere  avec  moi  parce  que  main- 
tenant  elle  recomence  ecrire  simplement  Quan- 
tites,  comme  habitude.  C'est  bonne  chose  que 
j'ai  jamais  arreter!  Je  vous  aime  parce  que  vous 
reponsez  toujours  directement,  meme  petite 
Envelope  gris.  Prochain  lettre  avec  Timbre 

»  Viser. 


198  JAMESIE 

Frangais  figurez!     Quoi  veut  dire  c.a  Fouler 
dans  Denise's  lettre? 

Avec  compliment  Mademoiselle, 

JAMESIE. 

Sophie,  to  Jamesie. 

MONSIEUR,  MON  CHERI, 

Cela  me  desole  que  vous  partiez,  bien  qu'  a 
une  pareille  destination.  Vos  visites  nous  man- 
queront  a  tous,  a  Holmer  et  a  Londres.  Dites 
a  votre  Maman  que  je  n'ai  rien  pour  le  moment, 
en  la  remerciant  bien  de  sa  bonne  pensee,  —  et 
d'ailleurs,  je  crois,  le  transport  de  lettres  est 
defendu  a  la  douane.  Je  suis  contente  que  la 
petite  amie  ne  boude  plus  (bouder  c'est  bien 
frangais!)  et  que  my  lord  va  mieux  ces  jours-gi. 
"  Fouler  "  est  un  peu  votre  "  sprain,"  mais  famil- 
ier,  et  s'il  s'agit  de  votre  papa,  inexacte.  Fils 
de  scientiste,  vous  choisiriez  plutot  1'exacte  ex- 
pression. Dites  alors  pour  lui  le  grand  mot 
Blesse,  c'est  largement  merite,  et  cela  vous 
plaira,  je  pense.  Bon  voyage,  Monsieur,  que  ma 
Paris  bien-aimee  soit  bonne  pour  vous. 

Votre  bien  devouee. 
SOPHIE. 


PART  III 

THE  MEETING-GROUND 


THE  MEETING-GROUND 

FRANCIS  was  wounded  for  the  second  time 
towards  the  close  of  1915. 

That  was  a  difficult  winter,  that  finished  for 
France  in  the  long  agony  of  Verdun.  Spirits 
were  sinking,  prices  rising,  fractiousness  and 
recrimination  the  order  of  the  day.  Even  our 
British  Tapleyism,  justly  celebrated,  was  hard 
put  to  it  to  find  comic  relief.  French  realism 
made  no  effort  to  do  so.  The  weather  opened 
cold  in  January,  then  relaxed  and  took  in  turn 
to  every  sort  of  hysteria,  as  though  encouraging 
humanity  to  do  the  like.  Storms  from  every 
quarter  of  the  compass  shook  the  seas,  seething 
already  with  the  hellish  inventions  of  man. 
Various  blizzards  adorned  the  month  of  Febru- 
ary, and  a  record  gale  of  wind  devastated  the 
English  midlands  in  March.  More  and  more 
irritably,  all  that  season  long,  France  questioned 
English  proceedings,  and  critical  Paris  espe- 
cially. But  the  satire  she  shot  was  occasional, 


202  JAMESIE 

absent  almost,  for  the  preservation  of  her  own 
proud  attitude  absorbed  her  quite.  The  blight, 
the  leprosy  still  clung  to  her,  strong  rooted ;  she 
whose  only  pride  was  to  be  perfect,  stood  defiled 
in  the  world's  eye,  with  the  very  gesture  of 
loathing,  pushing  it  away.  How  could  she 
really  have  time  for  us,  whose  own  time  was 
limited?  Her  partners  were  but  her  tools, 
means  to  her  end  for  the  time  being.  France 
rested  not,  spared  not,  spoke  not  which  was  most 
wonderful;  she  husbanded  and  herded,  such  as 
was  left  her,  her  eyes  upon  the  clock. 

So  I  have  gathered  from  du  Frettay's  con- 
versation since  the  epoch;  and  it  was  out  of  this 
self-same  rigour  of  public  affairs,  that  Corporal 
Blakie's  private  troubles  arose.  They  had  for 
some  time  back  been  accumulating,  but  I  only 
realised  them  when  he  reached  England,  and 
the  surgeons  set  him  free.  Francis  had  been 
rather  badly  treated,  this  time,  by  fate  and  the 
faculty,  so  he  was  allowed  an  interval.  He  was 
too  modest  to  talk  of  his  sufferings :  or  possibly, 
being  wounded  below  the  waist-line,  too  polite. 
I  doubt  if  I  should  ever  have  gathered  what  was 
wrong  from  his  own  accounts,  and  the  doctor 
was  taciturn:  so  I  left  the  hospital,  and  had  a 


THE   MEETING-GROUND       203 

belated  Christmas  dinner  with  Janet,  —  who 
immediately  told  me.  She  had  been  deluged 
with  exact  information,  in  overwhelming  termi- 
nology, at  every  stage  of  Francis's  inner  history, 
by  Sophie. 

It  was  from  the  Duchess,  too,  that  I  learnt  the 
facts  about  Linda.  Linda  was  scheming,  at 
Francis's  discharge,  to  have  him  down  to  her 
cottage  convalescent  home  in  Surrey.  This 
struck  me  as  an  excellent  idea,  as  also  Janet: 
but  the  subject  himself  was  less  certain,  I  found. 
Francis,  better  in  body,  was  suffering  from  what 
Sophie  and  her  like  called  the  "  cafard,"  after 
weeks  of  hospital. 

"  It  is  as  you  think,"  said  Francis,  depressed. 
"  I  'd  as  soon  stay  in  London  if  you  would  have 
me.  I  don't  suppose  it  will  be  for  long." 

"  Or  at  Holmer,"  I  said  to  cheer  him.  I 
should  mention  that,  barring  an  uncle  at  New- 
market, he  was  a  man  without  belongings  or 
appendages :  which  was  probably  why  his  nurses 
liked  him  so. 

"  I  dare  say  they  would  have  me  at  Holmer," 
said  Francis  shyly.  "  But  somehow,  until  I 
marry  her,  I  'd  rather  not.  It  is  not  quite  — 
natural." 


204  JAMESIE 

It  was  not:  it  was  disgracefully  out  of  nature. 
I  leant  nearer. 

"  My  dear  man,  why  do  you  not  marry 
her?  Why  have  you  not  been  married,  all  this 
time?" 

"  We  settled  not,"  said  Francis,  still  looking 
away.  "  It  would  have  lost  her  her  place,  and 
it  seemed  her  parents  did  not  want  that.  It 's  a 
good  one." 

"  Of  course  it 's  good,"  I  echoed  feebly. 

"And  Sophie,  she's  French.  That  is,  she's 
bound  up  to  her  parents,  though  her  father 's 
not  easy.  And  he  does  n't  care  for  the  English," 
he  added,  lowering  his  tone  a  little.  "  I  Ve 
an  idea,  he  does  n't  care  specially  for  me.  That 
is,  the  idea  of  me.  He  has  not  seen  me,  of 


course." 


"  How  could  he  not  care  for  the  idea  of  you?  " 
I  argued. 

Francis  smiled,  tolerant.  "  That 's  you,  sir. 
Just  look  at  me.  I  had  a  good  place,  but  you 
observe  I  Ve  lost  it.  I  Ve  only  corporal's  pay 
at  present;  and  though  what  she  calls  the  loca- 
tion is  larger  than  what  a  corporal's  wife  would 
get  in  France,  it  would  not  touch  what  her 
Grace  gives  her,  not  from  the  parents'  point 


THE    MEETING-GROUND       205 

of  view.  Added  to  that,  times  are  hard  —  get- 
ting harder  —  and  they  would  have  to  give  up 
her  '  dot.'  " 

"  You  are  *  cale,'  Francis,"  I  retorted.  "  If 
you  talk  French,  I  shall.  I  can  do  it  as  well  as 
Jamesie." 

Francis  smiled  again,  and  more  freely,  glanc- 
ing at  the  letters  that  lay  by  him.  We  had  all 
learnt  by  this  time,  be  it  remarked,  that  he  was 
the  person  to  apply  to,  for  facts  about  the  Suirs, 
for  the  reason  that  Jamesie  favoured  him  pe- 
culiarly. Bess  was  never  any  good,  on  the  sub- 
ject of  her  own  affairs ;  she  was  really  an  annoy- 
ing correspondent;  but  hardly  a  detail  of  domes- 
tic life  came  amiss  to  Jamesie,  once  he  had  found 
the  right  man  to  apply  them  to.  And  was  not 
Francis,  who  had  lately  tended  and  adorned  my 
modest  hearth,  under  the  eyes  of  Jamesie  taking 
tea,  most  evidently  that  person?  Thus  we  now 
applied  to  Francis,  as  to  our  young  friends' 
foreign  circumstances. 

"  They  have  met  the  brother,  I  think,"  said 
Francis,  alluding  to  Bess  and  Jamesie,  whose 
letters  lay  uppermost  in  the  sheaf  he  was  finger- 
ing. He  had  drawn  some  very  nice  ones  this 
time,  —  even  Shere  had  sent  him  a  message,  by 


206  JAMESIE 

Linda.  His  was  a  double  event;  to  get  a  Cor- 
poral's stripe,  and  then  be  bowled  over  for  the 
second  time,  even  in  this  eventful  generation, 
calls  for  commentary.  "  But  not  the  old  people, 
—  they  live  a  bit  outside  the  town.  Sevres 
would  correspond  to  Kew  or  Hampton  Court  I 
dare  say.  Not  but  what  Lady  Iveagh  would  go 
over,  if  I  specially  asked:  but  I  see  no  point  in 
putting  her  out.  Sophie  seemed  to  expect  it  of 
her  —  " 

"Did  she  indeed?" 

"  Yes,  sir.  It  would  have  been  Sophie's  idea 
of  the  nice  thing  for  Lady  Iveagh  to  do."  A 
touch  of  London  humour  showed  for  the  mo- 
ment. "  I  did  n't  argue  the  point.  I  put  it 
Sophie's  own  way,  saying  her  Ladyship  would 
have  enough,  living  in  a  small  way  as  Mr. 
Jamesie  speaks  of,  and  the  afternoons  in  the 
hospital,  and  Mr.  Jamesie's  self  who  is  not  to  be 
forgotten,  —  not  to  mention  her  husband  taking 
to  flying  just  when  she  thought  she  had  him 
safe.  .  .  .  Altogether,  I  just  put  it  to  Sophie  as 
I  told  you, — there  was  no  point  in  her  Lady- 
ship's putting  herself  out." 

"  And  did  Sophie  accept  the  judgment?  " 

"  I  can't  say,  sir.    I  told  her  by  letter,  as  usual. 


\  " 
THE   MEETING-GROUND       207 

I  can  only  hope  she  takes  what  I  say  in  that 
fashion  right." 

I  turned  it  over.  "  And  what  about  her  let- 
ters? "  I  queried.  "  Is  her  English  improving?  " 

"  Not  the  least,"  said  Francis,  gathering  sever- 
ity. "  She  is  convinced  she  speaks  English  to  a 
fault,  sir.  And  yet  she  constantly  says  I  misread 
her,  and  what  she  meant  to  say  was  as  plain  as 
plain.  It  is  n't,  sir,  not  always.  And  so  —  so 
we  waste  time." 

I  thought  about  it  anew.  It  was  hard  luck  on 
them,  undoubtedly;  it  was  the  common,  cruel 
luck.  True,  at  the  best  of  times,  this  pair  had 
had  to  trust  to  correspondence  largely;  but  it  was 
different.  With  our  minds  at  Peace,  even  simple 
lovers  of  two  nations  can  find  pen-room  for  their 
passion,  —  witness  the  earlier  letters  of  this  col- 
lection ;  apart  from  the  fact  that  when  the  Wick- 
fords  were  in  London,  little  safety-valve  meet- 
ings, walks  and  whatnot,  continually  occurred. 
Peace  simplifies,  and  straightens.  War  compli- 
cates, and  crumples  up.  "  It  is  the  nature  of 
War  to  widen,  not  to  approximate."  Ay,  —  but 
not  enemies  only.  It  widens  friends,  it  widens 
allies,  —  lovers  themselves  are  not  secure  from 
it.  It  puts  its  cursed  disintegrating  touch  on  all. 


2o8  JAMESIE 

"  It  comes  right  when  you  are  together," 
I  prompted,  in  the  direction  of  Francis,  who 
had  his  face  on  his  bent  elbow.  (He  was 
lying  full-dressed  on  his  hospital  bed.)  He 
nodded. 

"  And  down  in  the  country,"  I  insinuated, 
"  she  could  come  to  see  you  any  time.  I  should 
be  surprised  if  such  things  as  visiting  hours 
existed,  with  Mrs.  Monk  on  the  committee. 
You  remember  what  her  idea  of  rules  at  cricket 
were."  Francis  did.  "  I  might  motor  Sophie 
down,  for  instance,  on  Sunday.  Does  she  like 
the  country?  " 

"  She  knows  nothing  about  it,  sir,"  said  Fran- 
cis, lifting  a  weary  face,  and  seeking  severity 
where  he  could  not  find  it.  He  wanted  to  be 
severe  on  Sophie,  because  he  was  wearying  after 
her:  her  pretty  freshness,  her  French  fastidious- 
ness, her  absurd  didactic  airs  of  impotent  youth. 
He,  with  all  knowledge  now  garnered  of  the 
world's  evil,  did  not  at  all  want  Sophie  to  know 
things :  —  so  he  elaborated. 

"  It 's  as  much  as  she  knows,  if  she  knows  a 
robin.  She  's  afraid  of  horses,  and  openly,  — 
she  has  fits  of  course  at  cows.  She  regarded 
Sybil  at  Holmer  as  a  monstrosity,  —  you  remem- 


THE    MEETING-GROUND       209 

her  Sybil?  The  one  with  the  red  neck  that 
placed  them  all  to  leg." 

Did  I  not  remember  Sybil?  Gosh!  I  said  I 
recollected  her. 

"  She  's  doing  two  men's  work  on  the  farm 
now,  Pelham  told  me,"  said  Francis.  "  She 
works  for  her  country  all  right,  —  twelve  hours 
daily,  from  five  to  five.  How  's  that,  sir?  " 

"  Not  out,"  I  admitted.  He  ceased  for  a 
moment,  admiring  the  point:  noticing  it,  no 
doubt,  to  repeat  to  Pelham.  I  had  the  full  gaze 
of  his  nice  clear  eyes,  with  the  shock  behind 
them,  which  is  to  be  seen  now  in  so  many  of  our 
soldiers'  faces.  Of  course,  in  spite  of  the  little 
European  casualty  intervening,  Francis  remem- 
bered the  cricket-scores  as  well  as  I  did. 

"  Well,  she  was  n't?  "  He  pondered  the  great 
truth  I  had  stated.  "  His  lordship  all  but 
fetched  her  once,  it  was  a  wily  ball.  Me  she 
beat,  completely.  Com-pletely.  .  .  .  Well,  to 
resume,  sir,  Sophie,  she  runs  from  Sybil's  cows, 
and  makes  fun  of  her  complexion,  but  she  takes 
to  her  cream  very  kindly.  She  is  n't  any  thinner 
than  when  I  saw  her  last."  Evidently,  there 
was  a  reproach  conveyed ;  he  was  driving  home 
the  comparison  with  Sybil's  twelve-hours'  day. 


aio  JAMESIE 

"  I  hope  she  is  not  otherwise,"  I  said. 

"  She  's  about  what  she  was,  sir,"  said  Fran- 
cis, in  a  colourless  manner,  concealing  an  un- 
reasonable pride  in  Sophie,  past  and  present. 
"  Whereas  the  Duchess,  she 's  as  thin  as  you 
would  expect,  trailing  round  to  her  sales  and 
soldiers'  clubs  and  Belgians.  There  you  are 
again." 

"Belgians?"  I  asked. 

"  That 's  it.  Her  Grace  gives  Sophie  some 
bits  of  work  with  the  Belgians,  which  to  a  girl 
having  the  language  you  would  say  would  be 
simple.  But  no,  —  she  despises  them." 

"  Never,"  I  said. 

"  Yes,  sir:  contempt  it  is.  I  put  it  to  her.  I 
said,  your  equality  is  only  inside  your  own  coun- 
try then,  I  said.  There  's  none  of  necessity  with 
outside  nations.  I  could  n't  help  just  that.  I 
happened  to  remember  Lady  Iveagh  with  her 
arms  full  of  those  dirty  little  Belgian  babies, 
like  one  of  those  statues  of  Charity  — 

"  Hospitality,"  I  corrected  quickly:  because  I 
did  remember  Bess. 

"That's  right,  sir."  Francis  welcomed  the 
substitute.  "  I  used  charity,  but  I  have  an  ob- 
jection to  the  term.  And  so  would  those  Bel- 


THE    MEETING-GROUND       211 

gians  object,  and  rightly,  after  their  doings  in 
our  favour.  .  .  .  However,  there  you  are.  No 
altering  by  argument  Sophie's  national  view  of 
them,  as  being  like  herself,  but  different.  And 
as  getting  a  trifle  too  much  attention  in  Eng- 
land," added  Francis,  London  humour  appear- 
ing again,  "  while  the  claims  of  her  own  army  is 
left  out." 

"  These  girls  and  their  ignorance,"  I  moral- 
ised finally,  when  he  had  dilated  a  little  more  on 
Sophie's  general  short-comings.  "  Strikes  me  I 
shall  have  a  lot  to  teach  her,  when  I  take  her  to 
the  country." 

"You,  sir?" 

"  As  I  mentioned.  I  shall  quite  enjoy  that 
drive,  going  down." 

"  All  right,"  said  Francis  after  an  interval. 

After  that,  we  discussed  my  own  prospects  in 
the  Army.  Francis  thinks  about  as  much  of  my 
turn  for  military  service  as  he  did  for  my  crick- 
eting capacity.  However,  he  is  kind  to  me.  He 
gives  me  hints. 


212  JAMESIE 

Francis,  to  Sophie. 

DEAR  SOPHIE, 

We  have  a  very  nice  little  place  here,  and  it 
is  reached  more  easily  than  I  supposed  from 
London.  Care  in  excess  fit  to  amuse  you  if  I 
disclosed  it,  there  was  even  a  lady  (Miss  Laura) 
sent  up  to  fetch  us  down.  Now  I  am  able  to 
walk,  and  even  ask  for  a  ticket,  little  though 
they  may  think  it,  and  my  mate,  (that  is  Furniss 
I  introduced  you)  a  dab  with  his  crutches  knock- 
ing me  on  my  feet.  However,  indulgence  is  the 
order  of  the  day,  and  I  'm  not  denying  a  rest 
with  some  green  to  look  at  was  grateful,  and  I 
slept  after  that  little  outing  better  than  I  have 
for  some  time  back.  It's  odd  how  its  the  nights 
bother  you  being  then  it  all  comes  back  I  sup- 
pose, and  you  cant  get  level  with  the  alteration. 
Its  this  changing  to  and  fro,  however  easy  man- 
aged, trench-work  to  hospital-drill,  for  all  they 
say  it  is  confusing,  same  as  two  lives  might  be, 
undigested.  Now  for  fear  of  writing  too  stiff 
for  you  I  will  mention  little  facts.  For  instance 
these  sheets  are  better  than  the  London  sheets, 
needlework  on  the  pillows  such  as  even  you 
would  not  sniff  at.  And  I  have  flowers,  hot- 
house, that  is  Mrs.  Monk.  I  now  hear  her  hus- 


THE   MEETING-GROUND       213 

band  is  something  in  the  City.  And  what  you 
had  best  not  tell  others  our  butter  is  Butter  and 
our  milk  is  Milk,  not  concentrated.  Miss  Joyce 
in  her  White  looks  well,  and  seems  spirited. 
She  is  less  regular  than  the  other  ladies,  which 
makes  her  liked  because  looked  for.  Chances 
are  with  so  much  to  occupy  her  she  will  live  that 
sorrow  down. 

Now  goodnight  darling,  this  is  out  of  orders 
which  is  the  other  orders  following  me.  Here 
there  are  none  specially. 

Yours  ever, 

F.  B. 
Sophie  to  Francis. 

Mon  coeur,  I  am  happy  to  know  you  are  ar- 
rived and  shall  see  you  Sunday  without  fault  so 
wait  me.  How  did  that  Furniss  knock  you  on 
your  feet  it  was  negligent  extremely  when  you 
can  hardly  stand.  My  dear,  speak  not  of  nights 
to  me,  now  the  Duchesse  and  I  reach  *  one  an- 
other the  papers,  with  the  news  of  France.  Yet 
hers  are  officers  protected,  their  sectors  little 
exposed  or  near  the  trouble  region.  Only  her 
M.  Ronald  approaches  possibly,  while  mine 
much  more,  and  further  east  it  is  Enfer  unen- 

1  S'arracher. 


214  JAMESIE 

durable.  More  in  every  letter  it  is  feared  now 
they  must  give.  It  says  openly  in  Paris.  How 
can  they  hold,  alone,  unhelped,  those  multi- 
tudes against  them?  Why  do  you  not  aid,  you 
rich,  you  easy,  the  dozens  I  see  each  day  here 
drinking  in  the  London  streets.  No,  I  cannot 
understand  it,  do  not  speak  to  me!  Ours  they 
die  like  flys,  in  all  senses  I  hear  misfortune. 
Well  then,  I  impatient,  I  go  there,  I  devote  my- 
self for  the  brave  blesses  of  France.  There  is 
none  but  that  for  a  woman,  it  is  the  right,  the 
convenable,  the  Duchesse  and  my  father  must 
accord. 

Ecoute,  cheri,  I  have  now  made  three  nceuds 
of  tulle  for  the  Duchesse,  a  thoughtful  opera- 
tion. And  thinking  I  decided  this.  I  ask  the 
enormous  Grace  that  I  make  on  her  stove  on 
Saturday  a  consomme  de  legumes,  the  only 
thing  that  is  right  for  your  condition.  I  fill  this 
in  a  closed  pot  I  saw  in  that  cow-woman's  dairy. 
I  cover  it  with  a  napperon  from  my  own  cor- 
beille.  It  is  cleaner  for  you  than  that  nasty  beef, 
which  is  all  the  English  think  of.  I  shall  pre- 
sent my  soupe,  before  all  your  ladies,  with  per- 
sistance.  You  are  to  me.  Bon !  As  for  the  cos- 
tume of  infirmiere,  as  worn  by  such  as  pink  Miss 


THE   MEETING-GROUND       215 

Pennants  it  is  desecration.  I  forget  which  is 
Miss  Joyce,1  but  all  are  equal,  loud  and  pink. 
A  fine  French  face  for  the  veil  alone  is  indi- 
cated, necessary.  Bon!  All  this  I  considered 
to  the  end,  while  I  arranged  the  Duchesse's 
noeuds. 

Repose-toi  bien,  mon  petit,  a  bientot, 

SOPHIE. 

Madeleine  Pennant  to  Linda  Monk. 

DEAR  LINDA, 

I  went  to  tea  with  the  children  again,  Lady 
Iveagh  very  kindly  asked  me,  guessing  perhaps 
I  might  be  lonely,  since  Trixie  has  gone  east. 
Not  but  what  the  ambulance-girls  are  decent, 
and  Jeannette  meets  me  as  often  as  she  can  for 
lunch.  However,  that  is  not  the  point  of  the 
moment,  which  is  a  message  from  Jamesie.  He 
was  frightfully  interested  to  hear  the  names  of 
those  two  men  you  were  getting  down.  He 
knows  both  as  usual,  —  I  never  knew  such  a 
child.  It  seems  the  corporal  is  the  same  man 
that  knocked  us  all  into  fits  on  the  Holmer 
cricket-field.  It  struck  me  as  rather  a  weird 

1  ? 


216  JAMESIE 

chance,  unless  you  knew  already.  Or  perhaps 
Joyce  did?  Anyhow  to  make  all  safe  Jamesie 
composed  this  for  you.  It  is  not  a  proper  letter, 
—  I  think  its  name  is  a  Public  Note.  He  told 
me  he  only  knew  you  a  little,  and  you  might 
"  easully  "  have  forgotten  him.  Hence  of  course 
the  formality.  He  is  more  killing  than  ever, 
now  he  is  half  or  a  quarter  Frenchified.  I  don't 
know  which  is  sweetest,  his  little  Irish  accent  in 
English,  —  just  like  his  father's,  —  or  his  Eng- 
lish kind  of  downrightness  in  French.  And  the 
way  he  bears  with  the  rather  intense  little 
French  girl,  taking  her  in  while  she  talks,  and 
then  managing  her  with  a  word  or  two,  —  just 
brilliant.  He  has  about  the  only  mother  in 
the  world  who  would  not  be  in  open  hysterics 
about  him.  She  isn't,  she  just  listens,  never 
smiling,  or  only  at  the  right  things.  It  is  the 
only  way  of  course  with  a  clever  kid,  but  in  her 
case  heroic.  I  told  her  so.  He  is  so  original, 
don't  you  know.  He  really  has  all  sorts  of  ideas, 
on  his  own,  of  how  things  ought  to  be.  You 
should  have  seen  how  he  looked  at  the  car,  and 
then  at  me  explaining  it.  I  can't  describe  the 
manner,  —  it 's  princely.  I  feel  it  in  his  father 
too,  but  nobody  else  I  ever  mentioned  it  to  seems 


THE   MEETING-GROUND       217 

to  agree  with  me,  so  I  keep  it  dark.    Don't  tell 

Joyce  anyhow. 

Yours  ever, 

M.  M.  P. 

Jamesie  to  the  same. 

MRS.  MONK. 
MADAME, 

This  is  only  to  say  that  26134  —  th  Bat- 
talion —  Staffs  T.  F.  Corporal  F.  Blakie  hap- 
pens to  be  the  Man  called  Francis  who  made  the 
Enormous  Score  for  us  (against  you)  at  the 
Holmer  Cricket  Afternoon,  June  (I  have  for- 
goten)  1914  A.D.  He  belonged  to  Mr.  Herbert 
at  that  time,  now  to  K.  of  K.  under  H.  M.  King 
G.  Thinking  it  might  interust  you  all  to  know 
this  Ladies. 

I  am  with  Salute, 

J.  C.  Sum, 
(Paris,  France.) 

Francis  to  Herbert. 

Did  you  know  Miss  Joyce  does  play  really 
beautiful?  I  should  not  like  to  say  what  we  all 
thought  of  it  when  she  began.  We  did  not  want 
her  to  stop,  but  did  not  know  how  to  tell  her  so, 
for  she  was  playing  to  quite  a  few  of  us,  if  you 


2i8  JAMESIE 

understand  me,  on  a  piano  in  the  parlour  which 
the  Chaplain  sent  in.  I  think  she  was  afraid  of 
boring  us,  for  she  went  off  to  other  things,  songs 
and  so  on,  which  most  of  us  knew  rather  to  com- 
pletion,1 as  one  may  say.  She  had  said  she 
would  not  play  us  German  music  (not  that  we 
should  have  known  the  difference)  so  it  was 
Beetoven  who  was  n't  exactly  German  she  said 
she  played.  I  am  not  sure  if  I  spell  his  name 
right  but  you  will  have  heard  of  him  probably. 
I  seemed  to  have  heard  something  of  it  once  on 
a  gramophone,  can't  say  not  being  much  acus- 
tomed,  would  n't  like  to  be  sure.  But  it  did  you 
good  more  than  pints  of  medicine,  that  it  did, 
and  other  men  who  were  with  me  said  the  same. 
It  is  a  great  gift,  is  n't  it,  sir?  Furniss  said  she 
must  be  a  professional,  playing  like  that.  One 
of  us,  almost  a  kid  he  is,  cried,  but  he  is  pretty 
shaky  after  a  third  operation  on  his  eye,  so  he 
can't  stand  much.  .  .  .  What  I  thought  was 
this.  If  you  would  tell  Furniss  and  I  some 
things  by  name  to  ask  for  in  the  Beetoven  style, 
we  might  catch  Miss  Joyce  again  that  way.  If 
we  just  go  asking  for  music  at  large,  chances  are 
she  will  play  those  songs.  .  .  . 

1  Repletion. 


THE    MEETING-GROUND       219 

[I  hastily  turned  over  my  musical  acquaint- 
ance, on  receipt  of  this  rather  exceptional  re- 
quest, and  sent  the  letter  on  to  Iveagh,  who  had 
knowledge  at  least  reaching  beyond  gramo- 
phones. Iveagh,  who  had  by  this  time  picked 
up  an  air-pilot's  qualifications,  to  gratify  du 
Frettay,  and  was  working,  by  no  means  so 
picturesquely,  on  his  friend's  lines,  temporised 
as  usual;  but  he  was  sufficiently  amused  by 
Francis,  it  eventually  proved,  to  undertake  his 
education.  This  he  did  by  way  of  Laura  Pen- 
nant, who  was  musical,  though  in  a  quieter  way 
than  Joyce,  and  with  whom,  in  ancient  and  easy 
days,  before  he  had  a  wife  or  a  war  to  disturb 
him,  Iveagh  had  been  to  concerts  irregularly. 
"  Get  your  sister  to  play  this,  not  mentioning 
me,"  he  directed  Laura,  "  and  I  will  tell  every- 
one, by  Blakie's  manner  of  swallowing  it,  just 
how  Blakie  is." 

Laura  also  enjoyed  herself.  She  applied  the 
test  via  Joyce,  and  reported  results  to  the  R.F.C. 
in  France.  Francis  had  thought  the  Grieg 
Lyric  Fragment  "  taking,"  had  listened  politely 
to  the  Freischiitz  Overture,  and  had  stammered 
in  inexpressive  ecstasy  over  the  Pilgrim's 
Chorus.  Iveagh  and  Laura  agreed  that  he  was 
pretty  bad,  and  proceeded  to  lay  fresh  snares  for 
him  in  great  contentment.  Iveagh  had  rather 
forgotten  Laura,  but  she  came  back  to  him.  She 
had,  unlike  Joyce,  a  nice  feminine  handwriting.] 


220  JAMESIE 

Iveagh,  to  Laura. 

My  good  girl,  that  was  not  the  way  to  have 
him.  Of  course  he  liked  anything  the  first  time 
he  heard  piano  and  fiddle  too.  You  were  just  a 
pretty  extra,  and  the  way  your  fingers  fooled 
about  in  the  show-piece  amused  him.  You 
ought  to  have  hoofed  Joyce,  that  time,  and 
played  him  some  common  tune,  Irish  for  choice, 
which  would  have  proved  what  his  sense  of 
shape  was  good  for.  Chances  are  he  has  none, 
and  it  is  only  the  more  yearning  chords  and 
catchy  rhythms  get  him,  and  of  course  seeing 
the  nice  way  she  and  you  agree  about  it  (for 
once  in  your  lives)  sitting  above  him  in  your 
best  clothes.  .  .  . 

Janet,  to  Joyce. 

Just  a  line,  with  Mother's  love,  —  I  have  her 
here  at  Holmer.  She  wished  me  to  tell  you 
particularly  she  is  so  delighted  to  hear  you  have 
taken  to  music  again.  She  hankered  often,  she 
says,  to  hear  you  play  while  you  were  with  her 
in  the  spring,  but  she  so  perfectly  understood 
your  feeling  against  it  at  that  time,  even  though 
it  might  have  given  you  relief.  You  will  come 


THE    MEETING-GROUND       221 

and  play  to  Mother  one  day,  won't  you,  before 
she  leaves  me,  she  does  want  to  see  you  so? 
Come  before  you  practise  yourself  back  into  the 
austere  regions  of  professionalism,  where  noth- 
ing is  ever  to  be  found  for  domestic  use.  She 
loves  it.  It  would  be  good  for  Kells  to  listen 
too,  he  is  just  beginning.  Her  love  to  you  — 

Yours  affectly., 

J.  W. 

I  did  tell  Linda,  did  I  not,  that  her  nice  Cor- 
poral is  engaged  to  my  most  particular  maid? 
Please  be  kind  to  him! 

The  same,  to  the  Duke. 

DARLING, 

I  wish  I  had  not  such  an  odiously  suspicious 
mind.  It  is  partly  Mqther  here,  making  me 
writhe,  poor  dear,  by  the  way  she  talks  of  Joyce. 
And  here  is  Joyce  simultaneously  surrounding 
those  poor  convalescent  boys  (Blakie  one)  with 
a  circle  of  siren  fascination  (you  remember 
Uncle  Lionel  called  her  a  siren)  in  the  form  of 
soft  music  after  high  tea!  Well,  you  remember 
what  a  dangerous  moment,  even  if  one  has  re- 
turned from  no  wars  worse  than  football! 


222  JAMESIE 

Blakie  powerfully  impressed — he  said  in  his 
last  she  looked  like  a  spirit  in  white  —  and 
Sophie  jumpy,  who  wonders!  I  have  given  J. 
what  might  be  called  a  strong  lead,  I  hope  not 
too  flagrant,  —  with  Mother's  innocent  assist- 
ance. It  is  funny,  but  it  aches:  because  it  tugs 
at  the  roots  of  Steenie. 

Yours, 

j. 

The  Duke,  to  Janet. 

You  had  better  call  off  Iveagh,  he  is  in  it, 
encouraging  Laura,  and  I  am  not  sure  John 
Ingestre  is  not  too.  Disgustin'  behaviour  in 
married  men,  but  exactly  like  these  musical 
philanderers.  .  .  . 

Linda  to  Shere. 

I  am  much  too  sick  of  the  world  to  write,  and 
only  send  this  so  that  when  you  next  feel  pennish 
you  will  know  I  asked.  I  am  sure  I  only  wish  I 
had  Joyce's  joie  de  vivre,  that  girl  is  extraor- 
dinary. She  is  plunging  now,  hard  all,  into  an 
international  incident,  over  that  rather  stupid 
good  man  Blakie,  who  has  been  engaged  this 
long  while,  as  I  told  her,  to  Janet  Wickford's 


THE    MEETING-GROUND       223 

French  maid.  It  is  a  silly  business,  and  the  man 
I  always  thought,  though  decent-looking,  a 
dunce.  It  surprised  me  rather  you  remembered 
him.  Herbert  does  naturally,  and  he  seems 
somehow  tacked  on  to  the  Iveagh  Suirs  as  well. 
You  should  see  the  Parisian  post  he  has,  nowa- 
days. I  always  wondered  if  that  girl l  was  a 
flirt  at  bottom.  I  never  caught  her  out  yet,  nor 
did  Joyce,  but  here  she  is  corresponding  regu- 
larly with  a  ranker  behind  her  husband's  back: 
and  goodness  knows  what  may  not  have  hap- 
pened in  his  absence  heretofor.  Herbert,  of 
course,  being  a  man  no  woman  would  look  at 
twice  (trust  Iveagh)  is  as  innocent  as  a  babe. 
He  would  never  dream  of  such  a  combination 
as  conceivable,  however  attractive  the  man.2 
Of  course  he  is  half  in  love  with  her  himself, 
but  not  in  any  style  to  feel  the  pang  of  jealousy. 
Oh,  I  am  so  sick  of  things,  I  wish  you  would 
write  me,  I  am  utterly  wretched  here.  Why 
can't  I  fight,  I  'd  give  anything  to,  I  'd  not  do  it 
worse  than  Herbert.  If  only  I  could  lose  my 
head,  be  jealous,  anything,  —  but  I  can't  get  up 
a  spurt  now,  even  about  my  Redfern  frock. 
What 's  the  use,  —  beasts,  —  none  of  you  here 

1  Bess.  *  Oh,  didn't  I,  Linda? 


224  JAMESIE 

to  look  at  me.    Nothing  but  gaping  Tommies 
and  that —  [Shere  tore  off  the  rest.] 

Tim  Geoghan  to  Francis:  what  may  be  called 
the  other  side. 

What  do  you  want  turning  Corporal  for,  as 
well  as  the  Medal?  That  will  give  me  the 
deuce's  own  disturbance  getting  up  to  you,  when 
I  was  certain  this  fine  while  I  was  safe  ahead.  I 
am  sorry  for  you  being  out  of  it  now,  for  things 
are  merrier.  [Censor.]  I  hear  you  are  vexed 
about  the  gerl  I  could  have  promised  you,  the 
mistake  is  ever  to  get  tied  to  one  of  them,  as  I 
told  his  lordship  lately.1  Could  you  not  guess 
the  pair  of  you  this  would  be  the  high  time  of 
all  existence,  for  the  free  easy  man  with  not  one 
of  them  at  his  tails?  And  yet  any  of  them  in 
your  arms  at  a  wink  O  it  is  yourselves  I  am  sorry 
for  indeed  and  him  marrid  equaly.  ...  I  had 
a  letter  from  himself  recently  and  he  flying 
about  at  the  moment  or  perhaps  closely  before 
writing  to  me.  It  was  a  good  letter  and  an  in- 
tumate.  That  flying  is  a  great  thing  and  a  good 
idea  he  had  to  change,  for  he  takes  the  horses 
too  hard,  it  is  a  difference  in  us.  That  was  the 

1  ? 


THE    MEETING-GROUND       225 

way  he  came  down  on  me,  as  you  may  remem- 
ber, so  unbridled  and  unreasoning,  for  forbar- 
ing  to  overtask  myself  in  the  matter  of  his 
brother's  stable,  as  he  regarded  it.  But  there 
was  the  rule  behind.  Horses  and  gerls  it  is  the 
same,  you  are  lost  if  you  take  them  to  heart,  so 
I  have  asured  his  lordship,  and  he  crying  alone 
on  the  sand-dunes  beyond  at  Jerry's  demice 
when  a  little  young  boy  and  none  but  myself 
would  nottice  it.  To  be  sure  Jerry  was  a  good 
small  horse  and  a  neat  for  the  jumping  but  not 
an  Imortal  Soul  to  him,  nor  few  women,  and  to 
take  both  biterly  as  he  will  do  is  a  mistake. 
Pelham  will  have  let  you  know  that  Miss  F — 
as  came  before  Miss  Bess  for  him  and  a  beau- 
tiful tricksy  bit  of.  .  .  .*  That  little  Lady 
Aileen  is  a  grand  child  the  knowledge  of  her 
and  the  sweetness.  It  will  be  a  lucky  man  one 
day  as  gets  her,  sending  me  her  Photograph 
mounted  and  gracious,  if  it  were  only  for  having 
the  likes  of  Her  one  day  I  might  tack  on.  .  .  . 

Pelham,  to  the  same. 

My  boy,  I  may  as  well  mention  S.  is  getting 
jealous.    Before  I  go  farther  it  is  as  well  to  dot 

1  Censor  (private). 


226  JAMESIE 

the  eyes.  It  did  her  no  good  I  may  say  coming 
down,  those  ladies  of  yours  were  a  trifle  too 
goodlooking.  And  the  misfortune  is,  down 
here 1  one  may  say  they  are  already  known. 
They  all  know  what  Miss  Pennants  implies,  a 
bit  too  much  in  the  old  days,  and  consequently 
such  as  Green  and  Masters  try  to  make  play 
with  former  knowledge,  and  poke  fun  at  S. 
which  is  rash  as  I  take  it.  I  tell  them  French  is 
French,  and  Allies  or  none  there  are  limits.  It 
is  just  as  well  her  Grace  takes  her  back  to  Lon- 
don soon,  more  doing  there  and  less  time  to 
gnaw  memories  as  one  might  say.  Everything 
here  reminds  her  of  that  evening.  How  she 
waited  for  you,  just  the  place  in  the  Shrubbery, 
and  He  came,  and  You  failed  her,  owing  to 
what?  To  who,  I  should  say.  Well,  she  guesses. 
All  I  need  say  is,  S.  is  not  far  out.  Now  do  you 
take  me?  It  is  silly  enough.  She  pointed  her 
questions  at  me,  sharp  as  a  needle,  during  a 
walk  last  night  in  the  garden.  Of  course  I  said 
Miss  J.  was  off  her  head,  visible  to  all  and 
sundry,  about  another  gentleman;  but  that,  S. 
argues,  would  not  prevent  Miss  J.  being  seen 
by  you.  There  is  no  denying  either  she  was 

1  Holmer. 


THE    MEETING-GROUND       227 

visible.  S.  makes  something,  with  reason,  of  the 
dress  Miss  J.  wore  that  night.  Well,  I  won't  go 
into  those  ideas  of  hers  on  English  fashions  in 
the  evening,  we  have  had  them  frequently,  and 
anyhow  it  is  over  now.  The  Duchess  wears 
black,  and  high,  even  for  the  Albert  Hall  affair 
with  the  Royalties:  not  one  of  her  beautiful 
gowns  since  that  blessed  first  of  August  has  seen 
the  light.  No  ornaments  nor  ermine  even,  she 
goes  further  than  some  of  the  Princesses,  — 
Sophie  herself  told  me  so.  And  I  myself  heard 
the  Duke  trying  to  argue  her  into  the  ermine 
for  some  show  or  other,  when  he  was  over  last. 
But  she  is  as  stiff  as  a  rock  internally,  though  she 
did  not  let  out  her  purpose  at  once.  That  is 
woman,  that  is,  she  knows  those  ermines  become 
her,  and  she  can  just  stand  being  told  so  by  her 
husband  at  some  length,  though  she  rejects  them 
finally. 

Well,  to  come  back  to  S.,  there  you  are.  That 
Miss  J.  went  far  enough,  even  for  the  Stage, 
that  night,  was  obvious  to  the  meanest  eye.  At  a 
Picture  Palace  she  'd  have  been  censored  easily. 
I  could  see  her  old  Grace  before  dinner  disap- 
proving, and  the  Canon,  as  it  were,  commenting. 
And  Captain  Shere  said  it  was  less  a  Mask  than 


228  JAMESIE 

an  Unmask,  and  the  Duke  said  later,  in  the  kind 
of  diplomatic  way  he  has,  that  all  things  reck- 
oned with,  or  reckoned  without,  his  brother  had 
done  well  not  to  let  his  wife  be  there.  This 
represented  my  own  feeling,  as  the  Duke  often 
does,  exactly.  He  has  a  very  nice  judgment 
where  what  I  may  call  the  qualities  of  females 
are  concerned.  It  was  more  delicate  than  Capt. 
Shere's,  and  quite  as  fetching  for  her  really. 
Well,  and  is  it  likely  Sophie  missed?  She  was 
extra  neat  herself  that  evening  to  correspond. 
To  be  sure  she  was  wrapt  up  in  her  own  affair 
too  much  even  to  criticise,  at  the  time  being, 
but  took  note  unconscious  as  women  will,  and 
makes  use  of  it  now.  And  I  could  n't  exactly 
deny  you  had  an  interview  with  Miss  J.,  when 
charged,  being  as  how  you  told  me.  And 
Sophie,  before  the  end  of  the  garden-path,  with 
her  handkerchief  out,  pressed  to  her  mouth, 
both  hands  clutched  in  it,  the  stage-trick  to  the 
life,  little  idiot!  I  informed  her  she  was  one,  in 
various  ways,  but  what  is  the  use  of  it?  You  'd 
best  have  been  married  by  this,  my  boy.  .  .  . 


THE   MEETING-GROUND       229 

Jamesie,  to  the  same. 

DEAR  CORPORAL  F.  B.  (FRANCIS  BLIGHTY) 

I  am  glad  she  has  been,  at  last.  Arent  you? 
She  told  us.  The  letter  was  to  Mother  but  I  saw 
Sentences  where  she  pointed,  and  there  it  was, 
Francois,  Francois,  simply  Millions  of  times! 
That 's  the  Soup  they  make  for  the  Blesses, 
Mother  says.  How  didnt  it  Slop,  in  the 
Carriage?  I  asked  Mother  to  make  us  some, 
then  I  can  be  a  Grand  Blesse  at  a  Poste  de 
Secours,  and  Denise  do  Pansements,  which  she 
loves,  only  it  Tickles.  So  I  don't  let  her  often, 
or  I  kick  her  sudenly,  not  to  hurt.  She  knows 
Tipperary,  pretty  well,  she  always  goes  wrong 
in  the  hard  place.  So  I  told  her  to  practise,  on 
her  Grandmaman's  Piano,  but  she  says  she  has 
not  played  since  the  War.  Well!!  Still  I 
didn't  say  anything,  though  of  course  been  in 
the  same  House  sometimes  you  can  hear.  I 
wish  we  had  one.1  Kells  does  Music  now  and 
French  with  a  new  Mademoiselle.  Sophie 
made  us  Laugf,  what  she  said  about  her  to 
Mother.  She  is  a  Belgian,  from  Antwerp! 

Yours  aftly., 
JAMESIE. 

1  Piano. 


230  JAMESIE 

P.S.  —  I  forgot  to  say  Madcap  came  to  tea 
(in  Uniform)  and  took  my  Note  (rather  Pub- 
lic) to  Linda,  in  case  she  had  forgoten  Corporal 
who  you  were.  —  J.  C.  S. 

Laura  Pennant,  to  Iveagh. 

DEAR  IVEAGH  (May  I?) 

I  am  surprised  you  think  we  make  ourselves 
smart  to  play  to  the  soldiers,  personally  I  should 
not  care  to  at  all.  Joyce  sticks  to  her  uniform, 
(though  I  do  really  think  she  has  too  much 
colour  to  look  well  in  it),  but  I  wore  just  any- 
thing, since  I  cycled  over  from  my  school,  and 
my  hair  came  down  in  the  Humoreske 1  as  usual. 
Between  ourselves  nowadays  I  feel  distinctly 
out  of  it,  the  girls  have  been  so  busy  since  the 
war,  Joyce  especially,  and  I  have  done  simply 
nothing!  Of  course  I  had  my  teaching,  which 
cannot  be  neglected  just  because  the  Germans 
are  hammering  at  our  front,  and  what  is  more, 
I  had  to  take  on  an  extra  bit  of  music-work  the 
wretched  Fraulein  left.  (By  the  way,  they  have 
proved  she  was  a  spy,  and  the  girl  she  especially 
made  up  to  was  some  sort  of  distant  connection 
of  Admiral  Winkle's,  —  fancy!  Of  course  now 

1  A  violin  piece. 


THE   MEETING-GROUND       231 

they  see  the  reason  of  it.  It  is  really  a  Provi- 
dence she  is  a  particularly  musical  girl,  and 
quite  uninterested  in  naval  affairs.)  To  come 
back  to  the  Hospital,  I  hope  I  have  done  every- 
thing you  told  me.  I  have  nothing  specially 
new  to  report.  It  is  wonderfully  hard  to  draw 
anything  out  of  the  dear  men,  though  one  can 
see  their  feeling  is  as  nice  as  nice.  But  so  ter- 
ribly respectful!  The  girls  they  have  helping 
are  an  interesting  gang,  resting,  most  of  them, 
since  it  is  an  easy  place.  There  is  a  doctoress 
belonging  who  has  been  in  Antwerp  and  Bel- 
grade and  Monastir,  all  under  bombardments, 
and  another  frightfully  brainy  girl  who  is  both 
nurse  and  journalist  (think  of  the  work  of  it) 
smokes  like  a  chimney,  and  when  they  cleared 
her  out  of  Serbia  had  ever  such  fun  with  the 
Italian  officials  trying  to  get  back.  I  forget  if 
she  did  finally,  but  she  started  by  boat  at  mid- 
night several  times.  She  must  be  a  born  liar,  — 
by  name  O'Neill — oh,  I  beg  your  pardon! 
But  they  are  rather  imaginative,  are  n't  they? 
...  So  there  I  was,  with  no  experience,  and 
nothing  to  say  for  myself,  as  shy!  Luckily  I 
sat  by  that  nice  man  Blakie,  who  really  is  a  dear, 
he  tried  so  to  make  me  comfortable  though  of 


232  JAMESIE 

course  he  is  frightfully  in  request  And  another 
he  introduced  me,  a  blind  boy,  the  most  pathetic 
thing!  I  just  confessed  to  them  I  was  nobody,  I 
had  never  nursed  in  Alexandria,  nor  stuck  in 
Serbia,  nor  farmed,  nor  filled  shells  even,  — 
just  the  everyday  life  with  the  kids.  My  dear 
boy,  they  simply  froze  on  to  me.  Joyce  was 
rabid.  .  .  . 

[I  feel  uncertain,  says  Herbert,  what  to  say 
of  the  above,  it  is  such  a  monument  of  Pen- 
nantry.  From  the  "  May  I?  "  at  the  beginning, 
to  the  "  shy  "  at  the  end  it  is  arrant  rubbish :  no 
Pennant  was  ever  shy,  and  Laura  had  always 
called  Suir  by  his  first  name,  having  known  him 
as  long  as  Joyce.  Possibly  Laura  did  not  convey 
such  a  clear  and  cutting  impression  as  her  sisters, 
and  that  is  why  she  fell  back  on  the  feminine 
pose,  —  at  a  distance.  I  chiefly  remember  her 
as  bowling  furiously  at  one's  ankles,  or  eye- 
glasses, or  anything  vulnerable,  the  while  Made- 
leine, with  equal  fury,  bowled  dead  on  one's 
middle  stump.  Beyond  this,  I  give  the  word  of 
one  experienced,  there  was  not  a  pin,  in  phy- 
sique, to  choose  between  them.  However,  Suir 
happened  to  be  "grousing"  (English  for 
"cafard  "),  so  she  fetched  him  easily.] 


THE   MEETING-GROUND       233 

Iveagh  to  Laura. 

My  dear  L.,  don't  you  go  skidding  about  the 
world,  you  stop  at  home  where  the  old  work  is 
still  wanted.  It  may  be  middle-class,  or  perhaps 
I  am  getting  decrepit  among  these  asses,  but  I 
agree  with  Blakie.  Not  that  you  asked  for  my 
ideas. 

I  have  not  a  word  against  the  Red  Cross,  nor 
any  man,  Lord  forbid,  but  I  keep  having  that 
idea  that  where  we  want  women  most  is  in  the 
rear,  for  the  defence.  We  want  them  to  keep 
things  decent,  with  the  kids  above  all,  and  we 
want  you  to  let  us  know,  by  wireless  or  anyway, 
from  time  to  time,  that  the  tidy  life  still  exists. 
Things  as  they  used  to  be,  because  we  have  not 
improved  them.  We  will  not  for  some  time  do 
better  than  the  England  of  the  last  volume,  the 
England  I  used  to  know.  As  for  my  own  coun- 
try I  shall  become  profane  by  stages  if  I  speak 
of  it,  so  writing  to  a  nice  girl  like  yourself  I 
desist.  People  now  come  to  me,  or  anyhow  to 
Herbert,  and  say  gasping  —  there  were  abuses. 
We  were  all  sitting  smiling  on  the  craters  of 
several  volcanoes,  they  say.  All  I  can  say  is  I 
had  sooner  that  way  than  as  at  present  on  a  neat 
collection  of  active  ones,  which  are  ruining  even 


234  JAMESIE 

the  decent  things  there  were.  It  is  not  as  if  men 
(and  women,  for  my  mother's  generation  did 
wonders)  were  not  giving  their  life-blood  to 
rectify  what  was  wrong  before  the  crisis.  It  is 
not  as  if  craters,  when  decently  treated,  all  hands 
to  it,  need  of  necessity  break  out  I  have  sat 
myself  on  several  volcanoes  without  special  in- 
convenience, unless  that  I  might  have  liked  a 
second  pair  of  breeches  to  keep  out  the  cold. 
Make  an  allegory  of  that  if  you  see  the  way,  I 
do  not  at  present.  Society  may  have  been  deca- 
dent a  bit  in  England,  and  certainly  in  France : 
but  we  were  not  at  the  end  of  our  resources,  nor 
likely  to  be,  God  knows  we  are  much  nearer 
now.  And  if  it  was  waking  up,  however  we 
needed  it,  I  cannot  see  we  have  gained  much,  as 
a  few  millions  have  done  lately,  by  waking  up  to 
discover  yourself  in  splinters,  or  dead. 

I  may  not  be  writing  sense,  my  brother  says  I 
do  not  always,  and  my  mother  says  other  things 
about  my  style  and  habits  that  are  sadder  to  know. 
Also  the  weather  is  ghastly,  and  we  are  in  for- 
gotten kind  of  quarters  a  proper  pig  would 
protest  against.  (That  last  was  a  nice  sentence, 
aliteration  *  and  so  on,  take  note  of  it.)  I  have 

»  Sic. 


THE   MEETING-GROUND       235 

no  time  to  compose  as  a  fact,  I  only  set  out  to 
say  that  one  thing,  —  keep  in  front  of  the  kids  at 
all  costs,  do  not  let  this  beastliness  or  bad  feeling 
touch  them  if  you  can  help.  We  will  thank 
you  surely,  above  all  such  of  us  as  have  them  * 
ourselves.  None  of  us  could  go  on  for  a  day  if 
we  did  not  feel  that,  we  are  keeping  the  next 
lot  clear  of  it,  clean  of  it  is  the  word.  If  it  is 
fighting  for  my  boy's  future  I  will  do  it  will- 
ingly, and  fall  if  required,  none  readier.  But 
we  cannot  do  what  we  want  even,  do  you  see  my 
argument,  unless  you  girls  will  fall  in  and  help 
us  behind.  .  .  . 

The  Duchess,  to  Lady  Iveagh. 

BESS  DEAR! 

We  are  so  sorry  to  give  Iveagh  away,  but 
he  is  having  the  loveliest  musical  flirtation  with 
Laura,  and  we  do  so  wish,  Sophie  and  I,  that 
he  would  turn  his  attention  upon  Joyce.  Could 
you  not  get  him  to?  We  do  not  know  what  to 
think  about  her,  Sophie  and  I,  and  we  grow 
terribly  uncomfortable.  I  assure  you  I  suffer 
for  it,  for  my  tulle  butterflies  have  lost  all  their 
character,  and  my  hair-waves  seldom  settle 

»  Children. 


236  JAMESIE 

right,  not  to  mention  such  a  tragic  little  face  in 
the  glass  behind  me,  that  I  cannot,  though  I  fain 
would,  believe  it  is  only  Verdun.  It  will  shortly 
be  a  French  situation  a  trois,  all  complete,  if 
someone  nice  and  Irish  does  not  help  us.  I  am 
sure  he  would,  if  you  asked!  A  musical  flirta- 
tion is  such  a  delicately  insinuating,  attractive 
thing.  And  so  safe,  Bess !  Nothing  is  so  safe,  it 
is  better  even  than  the  literary  variety,  which 
often,  as  you  know,  gets  rather  disagreeable  at 
the  end.  The  musical  sort  is  fierce,  but  friendly : 
he  has  only  to  tell  her  that  Moussorgsky  or  one 
of  the  latest  makes  him  sea-sick:  and  they  will 
soon  be  at  it,  furiously  delighted  with  one  an- 
other, and  Joyce  will  forget  Francis.  Now  do 
you  perceive  our  deadly  anxiety? 

I  think,  really,  it  is  the  poor  dear  man  being 
weak:  weak  in  body,  and  disillusioned.  It  has 
been  an  unmentionable  ordeal  for  our  nicer 
men.  They  went  out  so  kind  and  hopeful,  espe- 
cially those  of  the  first  lot,  because  of  course  the 
first  harvest  drew  all  the  knightly  spirits,  the 
gentle  quixotes  who  in  England  eternally  exist. 
I  know  he  must  be  that  by  what  St.  John  thinks 
of  him :  St.  John  is  a  person  who  ought  to  know.1 

1  I  salute  the  Duchess. 


THE    MEETING-GROUND       237 

But  my  dear,  what  kind  of  an  awakening  has  it 
been  for  quixotes,  —  an  everlasting  awakening 
from  island  dreams  of  romance.  I  think,  often, 
the  moral  suffering  in  simple  spirits  has  been 
fearful,  worse  than  the  physical,  their  poor 
minds  too  have  been  scorched,  and  blinded,  and 
gassed.  Gassed  into  apathy,  or  blinded  into 
bitterness,  and,  since  the  British  kind  is  masked 
and  silent,  good  jolly  clergymen  like  Uncle 
Lionel  are  helpless  before  it,  and  the  most  per- 
ceptive doctors,  like  Ashwin,  are  helpless  too. 
Our  men  are  such  babes,  oh,  they  are,  Bess! 
Trix  says  the  Americans  from  the  West,  should 
we  drag  them  in  —  which  heaven  forbid  for 
their  sake  —  are  tenderer  still.  Well,  is  it  any 
use  opening  their  eyes,  by  horrors  like  this?  I 
suppose  your  elderly  young  French  friends 
would  say  it  is.  I  am  inclined  to  say  it  is  not, 
because  nothing  so  out  of  their  own  life  and 
nature  can  be  possibly  right  Consider  the  ant 
and  the  beaver  and  things  of  that  sort.  They 
each  find  the  environment  that  is  good  for  them, 
don't  they?  Will  you  kindly  extract  this  thought 
for  me,  and  illustrate  it,  and  enlighten  me?  I 
really  have  no  time  in  this  whirl  to  think,  in 
terms  of  ancient  reasoning.  It  is  just  emotion 


238  JAMESIE 

on  emotion,  crushing  one,  till  one's  brain  is  a 
blank.  .  .  .  Nurse's  sister  seems  seriously  ill,  at 
Salonika.  I  told  Kells,  but  he  is  in  the  Prepara- 
tory School  condition  of  kicking  at  Nurse,  and 
he  only  looked  sulkier.  I  wish  he  felt  things 
more,  —  she  is  so  devoted  to  him,  and  he  repays 
her  so  rarely,  though  he  can  be  sweet.  .  .  . 

Lady  Iveagh,  to  the  Duchess. 

I  will  hand  on  your  suggestion  about  Joyce  to 
Iveagh,  but  I  don't  think,  somehow,  it  will 
work.  About  poor  Nurse,  I  am  sorry,  I  am 
writing  to  her  separately.  Oh,  the  bravery  of 
those  women,  —  I  mean  the  Nurse's  sisters,  but 
I  won't  exclude  the  Holmer  Nurses  too.  She 
wrote  Jamesie  the  jolliest  kind  letter  only  yes- 
terday, with  news  of  everybody,  children  and 
animals,  just  because  she  discovered  that  Kells 
forgot. 

About  Francis,  yes,  I  grant  all  that,  only  I 
think  the  trouble  comes  much  more  from  the 
other  side.  Should  a  thousand  Joyces  catch  him 
dreaming,  or  drowsing,  or  discouraged,  they 
would  not  alter  his  fidelity.  I  shall  not  speak  of 
this  theory  to  my  French  friends  either,  they 
might  call  it  sentiment  or  cant,  like  yours.  They 


THE   MEETING-GROUND       239 

call  English  conviction  cant,  just  now,  rather 
easily,  perhaps  because  we  take  so  long  really  to 
be  convinced  of  things !  And  when  we  are  they 
are  cross  again,  because  nothing  will  stir  it,  even 
mockery.  It  is  all  heavy  to  them,  drowthy,  and 
they  are  so  graceful  and  light,  gliding  over  what 
they  do  believe,  for  conversational  purposes. 
Of  course  conscientious  objectors  could  not  exist 
over  here:  they  would  all  have  died  long  ago 
of  mockery,  and  been  buried  appropriately, 
without  any  flags. 

However  it  may  be,  I  feel  it  in  my  bones, 
about  Francis.  I  don't  know  much,  Janet,  but 
I  do  know  lovers,  and  I  gave  him  my  hand  upon 
it,  long  ago.  I  have  always  found  it  hard  to 
believe  he  was  not  a  Northcountryman.  I  think 
with  that  -ie  he  must  be,  but  let  that  pass.  It  is 
far  more  likely  Sophie  would  give  him  what 
you  call  the  go-by  out  of  pique,  or  her  parents' 
prodding,  which  I  think  by  signs  in  her  letters 
has  increased  of  late.  She  is  terribly  inclined  to 
succumb  to  them  to  save  what  she  sees  as  a  life- 
time of  worrying,  since  she  cannot  see  herself 
shaking  free  of  them  once  for  all.  She  is  under 
her  father's  shadow  still,  and  dare  not  give  it  up 
for  Francis's,  will  not  trust  herself  to  him.  If 


240  JAMESIE 

she  ever  really  had,  I  am  certain  he  would  have 
swept  her  away  from  you  and  everybody,  made 
her  marry  him,  taken  her  once  for  all.  Because 
he  would  be  very,  very  good  at  taking,  though 
not  mentioning  it  up  to  the  moment  when  he 
leads  the  assault,  if  I  may  judge  by  that  decora- 
tion. But  she  cannot  let  go  of  her  moorings  on 
this 1  side,  —  very  natural  for  so  young  a  girl,  in 
another  country,  and  most  of  all  natural  now. 
The  strain 2  is  at  its  worst  now,  —  I  won't  en- 
large on  it,  because  it  is  just  a  fever  symptom. 
I  will  do  what  I  can,  dear.  Anyhow  I  have 
friends  in  France.  .  .  . 

The  same,  to  her  aunt,  —  evidently  a  close  con- 
fidante, a  friend  of  du  Frettay's,  and  a  per- 
son of  her  own  'way  of  thinking. 

There  is  no  doubt  about  the  Entente  under 
this  roof,  Ernestine.  You  can  tell  anybody  who 
asks  you,  here  it  is  quite  all  right. 

I  forgot  if  I  explained  the  full  origins  of  our 
coming  here?  G.3  may  have  done  so,  or  (still 
more  likely)  you  may  have  guessed.  Our  little 
flat,  on  the  fourth  floor  of  the  house  at  Passy 
where  his  mother  lives  "  au  premier,"  was  taken 

1  French.  2  Anglo-French.  *  du  Frettay. 


THE   MEETING-GROUND       241 

and  furnished,  five  years  since,  by  her  for  her 
son's  menage.  He  and  his  wife  lived  in  it,  as 
you  know,  for  eighteen  months,  then  it  was  over, 
together  with  all  his  mother's  hopes  for  them. 
Madame  du  F.  kept  the  flat  on  though,  just  as 
it  was,  for  him  to  work  in,  when  he  wished  to  be 
quiet,  —  all  his  papers  and  mechanical  plans  are 
here.  (You  remember  how  neat  he  always  was 
at  Hatchways,  —  it  makes  me  ashamed  of 
Iveagh  on  top  of  him!)  When  he  was  mobil- 
ised, of  course,  it  fell  free  again,  and  she  offered 
it,  as  soon  as  we  came  to  Paris,  to  us. 

Well,  that  is  the  background  of  my  story.  She 
has  been  worrying  cruelly  about  G.  who  has 
missed  a  letter,  —  she  has  had  nothing  at  all 
from  him  for  five  days.  Janet  or  I  can  bear  that 
at  need,  —  this  French  mother  cannot  possibly. 
Since  he  first  went  off  he  has  never  failed  to 
write  every  other  day,  except  when  "  en  permis- 
sion," which  is  to  say  under  her  eyes.  Picture 
her  feelings  then,  —  and  who  dares  say  without 
foundation?  Gabriel  is  what  they  call  an  "ace" 
here,  a  great  adventurer  of  the  air,  always  just 
on  the  hither  side  of  recklessness,  and  he  is  in 
one  of  the  eastern  "  secteurs  "  at  present,  where 
there  is  scope  enough  for  such.  Well,  she  wired 


242  JAMESIE 

to  Iveagh  at  once  when  the  post  brought  her 
nothing,  and  he  wired  back,  I  am  sure  as 
promptly  as  he  could,  but  he  had  no  help  for 
her.  She  wired  to  G.'s  headquarters,  —  no 
answer.  Perhaps  chiefs  are  bored  with  mothers, 
I  can't  say.  I  was  down  with  her  all  yesterday 
afternoon  trying  to  comfort  her,  to  think  of 
reasons,  the  weather,  anything,  —  but  nothing 
did  her  any  good.  She  told  me,  sitting  like  a 
Fate,  that  he  was  dead,  that  she  had  known  he 
would  be,  that  all  the  others  were,  —  all  the 
others!  So  ghosts  gathered  thick  about  me,  in 
the  dull  snowy  light,  through  the  French  veiled 
windows,  —  you  know  how  they  muffle  every- 
thing in  their  rooms.  My  tongue  clove  in  very 
despair  of  righting  them,  young  ghosts,  so  many, 
so  dear,  —  and  why  not  ours? 

Late  in  the  evening,  mine  came  back.  Sud- 
denly, —  he  had  the  night,  —  he  had  been  in 
Paris  all  day.  I  did  not  ask  about  it,  I  never  do. 
He  came  up,  quick  and  soft,  past  her  door:  not 
daring  to  go  in  to  her,  since  he  had  nothing. 
He  guessed  from  her  telegram  what  her  torture 
must  be.  I  dared  not  go  either,  it  was  so  late, 
after  nine:  and  I  did  not  want  to,  Ernestine. 
We  talked  in  whispers,  not  to  wake  Jamesie: 


THE   MEETING-GROUND       243 

we  never  expected  her  to  come.  Besides  all  her 
feelings  about  the  flat  I  mentioned,  the  stair- 
flights  bother  her.  Still,  she  has  the  key  of 
course:  and  I  suppose  we  missed  the  click  of  the 
outer  door. 

His  wretched  knee  was  aching,  having  been 
standing  about  all  day  at  the  Ministry.  I  was 
rubbing  it,  most  domestic,  indecorous,  every- 
thing, —  he  was  sitting  in  Gabriel's  chair.  I 
had  not  thought  what  it  would  be  for  her, 
should  she  come,  because  I  would  not  think  of 
her  or  anybody.  I  just  wanted  to  be  happy  at 
all  costs,  and  shut  out  others'  tiresome  suffering. 
That  is  how  we  are  getting  now.  .  .  .  Only  I 
could  n't,  quite.  Perhaps  because  my  boy  was 
pale,  resting  above  me,  letting  me  play  with 
him,  as  he  calls  it,  looking  at  me,  yes,  —  but  not 
thinking  about  me  enormously.  I  knew  he  was 
not.  I  tried  to  pull  his  thoughts  away  from  G. 
by  any  means,  the  usual.  .  .  .  Then  she  came. 

I  believe  it  was  telepathy,  the  thing  never 
quite  out  of  nature.  He  just  turned  his  head,  — 
you  could  see  the  flash  pass  between  them.  You 
know  she  has  been  jealous  of  him  often,  which 
made  it  more  wonderful.  I  had  him  tight  by 
the  leg,  he  could  not  move  to  meet  her,  an  old, 


244  JAMESIE 

dignified  French  lady,  —  I  never  behaved  so 
shockingly  in  my  life.  She  took  his  head  so 
sweetly,  and  kissed  him,  and  said  — "  That  is 
right,  my  dear,  let  her  look  after  you,"  —  as  if 
he  had  been  G.,  —  and  she  pretended  she  had 
come  to  look  at  Jamesie,  and  went  on,  leaving 
us  there. 

Trespassers  on  her  hearth,  her  sacred  places, 
—  you  know  what  it  is  to  a  French  mind,  — 
Iveagh  cried.  ...  It  is  the  whole  agony  comes 
home  to  you  at  such  moments.  Multiply  that 
on  her  face  by  a  million,  by  two  million,  awful ! 
And  useless,  that  is  the  curse.  Because  this 
morning  both  letters  have  come,  one  after  the 
other,  and  it  was  nothing  but  an  upset  of  the 
courrier,  owing  to  the  storm.  Everybody's 
mothers  had  been  tortured,  Ernestine,  owing  to 
a  little  weather,  that  is  war.  And  everybody's 
wives.  While  I  — 


Francis,  to  Herbert. 

Can  you  tell  me  why  Sophie  has  stopped  writ- 
ing, for  more  than  a  week  now,  nearly  ten  days? 
It 's  not  her  brother,  is  it?  Because  I  do  hear 
the  losses  are  heavy  for  all  the  Daily  Mail  rather 


THE   MEETING-GROUND       245 

gives  the  other  side.  I  hope  it  is  not  missing,1 
that  would  do  for  her.  Excuse  shortness,  they 
have  rather  stopped  me  off. 

Herbert  to  Sophie. 

[Abominably  rash,  but  I  was  anxious.] 
How  dare  you  stop  writing  to  Francis? 

Nurse  to  Lady  Iveagh. 

I  got  a  talk  with  Sophie  as  you  suggested,  and 
tried,  having  been  primed  by  Pelham,  to  dis- 
cover what  was  wrong.  She  used  to  trust  me 
considerably  at  one  time,  but  lately,  one  thing 
and  another,  she  has  rather  drawn  away.  She 
seems  to  suspect  everybody,  though  I  am  sure  I 
can  answer  for  Pelham  and  others,  they  have 
tried  to  be  kind  to  her.  It  is  the  papers  partly. 
She  cannot  stand  the  way  they  patronise  and 
show  off  her  army,  as  though  this  time  of  trial 
was  a  pretty  play.  I  agree  with  her,  some  of  the 
papers  seem  less  than  serious,  considering  the 
number  of  people  in  the  deeps,  as  it  were,  who 
are  bound  to  read.  For  we  can  none  of  us  keep 
off  them,  even  if  we  dislike  the  taste 2  as  many 

1  Posted  "Missing."  •  Which  sense? 


246  JAMESIE 

do,  and  I  suppose  they  profit  by  it.  ...  Well, 
the  girl  was  stiff  with  me,  and  seemed  offended 
with  Mr.  Herbert  sorely.  She  classed  it  as 
English  rude  of  course,  forgetting  however  a 
gentleman  he  might  have  his  feelings  too. 
Sometimes  I  think  they  are  much  stiffer  about 
classes  really,  than  we  are,  at  any  rate  have  it 
more  on  their  minds:  she  will  not  believe  it 
could  be,  in  Mr.  Herbert's  case,  the  feeling  al- 
most of  a  friend.1  I  said  Mr.  Herbert  would 
have  written  that  exactly  if  Lady  Meg  or  Miss 
Laura  say  had  been  in  question:  and  had  he 
thought  of  S.  for  one  moment  as  servant,  he 
would  have  been  more  roundabout  and  polite. 
But  no,  she  will  only  take  it  as  a  direct  offence 
and  set-down  directed  to  herself.  ...  I  read  it 
chiefly  as  a  kind  of  national  soreness,  varied  by 
jealousy  of  Miss  Joyce  as  to  the  fore  in  Blakie's 
letters,  more  than  anything  against  Blakie  per- 
sonally. Jealous  is  jealous,  no  doing  much  to  it, 
yet  I  may  have  served  for  something.  She 
knows  about  Maggy  having  taken  this  fever 
nursing  a  French  officer:  which  may  account 
for  her  taking  me  as  well  as  she  did.  .  .  . 

1  To  Francis.    Needless  to  say,  this  practised  psychologist  is  right. 


THE   MEETING-GROUND       247 

Lady  Iveagh  to  Nurse:  extracts  from  two  letters. 

I  am  so  sorry  about  Maggy.  Did  you  know 
Miss  Beatrix  was  out  there?  Her  sister  whom 
I  told  is  cabling  to  her  to  send  you  news.  If  it  is 
outside  the  town  a  little,  Trix  has  a  car,  and 
need  never  think  twice  about  telegraphing  ex- 
penses ;  and  she  is  so  kind.  .  .  .  Thank  you,  that 
was  exactly  my  own  feeling  about  Sophie.  A 
little  jealousy,  and  a  national  soreness:  she  is 
punishing  him  for  others,  I  do  not  believe  in  the 
heart  of  her  she  doubts  him  at  all.  It  was  ex- 
tremely kind  of  you  to  make  the  effort,  —  I  hope 
you  did  not  go  up  to  London  on  purpose  for 
that?  But  perhaps,  as  Kells'  mother  talks  of 
him  growing  out  of  all  his  clothes,  it  was  some- 
thing much  more  important!  ...  I  know  what 
you  mean,  they  do  worry  a  little  here  about 
equality,  considering  that  it  is  the  leading  Re- 
public, where  the  rights  of  man  were  clearly 
demonstrated,  once  for  all.  I  suppose  that  is  it, 
—  knowing  themselves  a  model  they  get  self- 
conscious,  at  least  among  the  weaker  ones:  so 
that  it  becomes  more  "  I  am  as  good  as  you," 
than  "  you  are  as  good  as  I,"  which  is  so  much 
pleasanter.  And  anyhow  it  is  a  pity  to  think 
too  much  about  it.  I  am  sure  you  always  ad- 


248  JAMESIE 

mitted  the  Duchess  was  as  good  as  you,  Nurse, 
didn't  you,  in  the  matter  of  Kells?  You  have 
not  anything  to  reproach  yourself  with.  .  .  . 
However,  the  papers  do  show  us  at  our  very 
worst,  certainly.  I  saw  one  the  other  day,  by  I 
suppose  our  greatest  living  journalist:  who 
managed  (very  cleverly)  to  suggest  first,  that 
the  poor  wretched  German  prisoners,  disap- 
pointed of  the  victory  promised  them,  and  sick 
with  the  slaughter  as  everybody  must  have  been, 
were  not  properly  grateful  to  English  woman- 
hood nursing  them:  and  next  improved  it  to 
English  ladyhood,  as  making  the  case  still  more 
shameful!  I  lit  my  fire  with  that  newspaper, 
gladly;  and  I  said  while  I  did  it  —  "  So  perish 
all  snobs."  Jamesie  heard  me,  —  he  is  in  bed 
with  a  cold. 

[These  two  correspondents  are  sure  of  one 
another's  humour,  I  should  like  to  remark.  It 
must  be  the  Northern  sympathy  again.  Bess 
jests  in  all  security,  even  on  the  solemn  subject 
of  Kells.  And  I  know,  first-hand,  that  the 
Wickford  nurse  vastly  enjoyed  her  letters.] 


THE   MEETING-GROUND       249 

Miss  Kitchin  to  the  Duke. 

Would  it  be  too  inopportune  if  I  begged  your 
Grace  to  have  an  auditor,  professional  or  other- 
wise, to  check  the  books  of  my  Funds?  It  seems 
her  Grace  1  has  found  a  considerable  deficit  at 
her  end,  and  it  is  hard  in  the  present  congestion 
of  trade  and  traffic  from  my  end  to  check  the 
error.  Not  that  her  Grace  accuses  me  at  the 
worst  of  anything  more  serious  than  careless- 
ness, and  it  might  be  so,  though  I  have  done  my 
best.  But  even  so  you  will  understand  that 
neither  do  I  want  to  fall  foul  of  the  tradesmen, 
overtaxed  as  they  all  are,  unless  quite  necessary; 
nor  should  I  like,  if  doubts  there  are  of  my  full 
competence  and  conscientiousness  in  this  impor- 
tant work,  such  doubts  to  remain  nebulus  for  an 
instant.  I  had  sooner  resign  my  post  complete, 
however  regretful  to  sunder  the  last  link  of  my 
old  connection  with  your  Grace's  household. 
Yet  it  must  come  some  time,  and  nothing  would 
pain  me  more  than  that  such  separation  should 
be  forced  or  under  a  veil.  .  .  . 

1  The  elder. 


250  JAMESIE 

The  Duke,  to  Iveagh,  enclosing  the  above. 

Will  you  see  to  this?  It  is  Mother  teasing  the 
poor  old  cat  probably,  the  customary  thing.  I 
suppose  by  a  forced  separation  she  means  being 
scruffed,  and  no  doubt  that  is  what  Mother  is 
trying  for.  But  I  had  sooner  not,  if  it  is  all  the 
same  to  Mother,  since  she  still  does  a  piece 
of  my  business,  decently.  Let  her  know  that  I 
have  always  been  contented  with  her,  which  is  a 
fact,  and  would  need  something  stronger  than 
Mother's  word  for  it  to  believe  she  was  cheating 
Mother,  still  less  the  hospital  funds.  Have  an 
auditor,  or  whatever  you  like,  anyhow  take  it 
off  me,  there  's  a  nice  little  lad.  .  .  . 

Iveagh,  to  the  Duke. 

Oh  bother  you,  just  when  I  had  a  little  peace. 
I  don't  like  booting  a  cat-fight  any  more  than 
you,  more  especially  when  I  have  got  a  game 
knee.  Besides  I  thought  the  idea  was  I  should 
make  war  for  the  time  being.  Is  there  no  get- 
ting rid  of  them  *  in  this  world  anyhow?  That 
one  always  made  my  heart  sink,  to  look  at  her 
disadvantages,  though  dishonest  is  not  one  of 

1  Women. 


THE   MEETING-GROUND       251 

them.  I  suppose  I  will  do  it,  some  time.  I  will 
ask  you  to  pay  my  journey  and  my  dinner,  not  to 
mention  divert  B.'s  loving  attention  off  me,1  if  I 
have  to  go  to  Boulogne.  .  .  .  Look  here,  would 
you  like  to  answer  this  in  exchange,  because  I 
am  resisting  the  seduction.  If  you  do  not  see 
your  way  to,  tear  it  up,  I  trust  you.  Anyhow  do 
not  let  the  women  know. 

[The  letter  enclosed  was  from  Joyce.] 

The  Duke  to  Iveagh,  — postcard. 
Have  you  any  more  of  that  sort? 

Iveagh  to  the  Duke. 

I  might  have.  Be  easy,  I  '11  not  die  of  it.  She 
has  a  down  on  me,  you  may  remember,  and  each 
time  she  feels  the  symptoms  of  a  fresh  one,  she 
remembers  me  again.  I  think  it  is  some  law  of 
nature,  but  which  I  would  not  like  to  tell  you. 
My  own  tidy  woman  has  not  feelings  of  that 
kind  in  her,  —  has  yours? 

1  Question  of  leave,  probably. 


252  JAMESIE 

Joyce,  to  Iveagh. 
[This  letter  I  have  censored  myself.  —  S.  H.] 

I  am  surprised  you  have  not  written  me  on  the 
theme  your  family  is  raving  about,  but  perhaps 
you  are  acting  this  time  through  your  wife. 
Linda,  who  notices  writings  (having  had  a  good 
deal  of  dodging  of  the  sort  with  Reginald  l  to 
do)  told  me  she  had  hardly  missed  a  day  with 
F.  B.,  who  really  does  not  particularly  want  her 
intervention.  However,  if,  as  I  think,  it  is  still 
you  who  are  the  invisible  controller  of  my  des- 
tiny, you  had  better  drop  it,  because  it  is  now  too 
late.  You  would  not  stop  my  marrying  him  if  I 
chose  to,  nor  snubbing  him  if  I  chose  to,  and  he 
is  rather  a  bore.  Even  now  he  is,  following  me, 
and  leaving  flowers  on  the  key-board,  and  he 
might  bore  me  to  extinction  later  on,  worse  than 
Linda's.  It 's  only  the  splash  it  would  make 
among  all  you  infernal  nice  people  would  amuse 
me  to  witness.  I  can  see  Janet's  mother  .  .  . 
with  her  face  drawn  to  her  boots,  and  your  wife 
being  kind  to  us  ...  and  the  Frenchwoman 
sharpening  a  razor,  and  you  cutting  me  —  cut- 
ting me,  would  n't  you?  Rank  lot  of  snobs  and 

1  Monk. 


THE    MEETING-GROUND       253 

shirkers.  .  .  .  We  played  the  Kreutzer  last 
night,  beastly  Boche  rubbish  it  is ;  and  first  and 
last  I  knocked  Laura  out,  did  not  allow  them 
to  hear  her.  I  heard  Carreno  *  play  that  trick 
once  on  quite  a  swell  violinist,  man  of  course,  it 
was  lordly.  Then  and  there  I  swore,  when  I 
next  had  the  chance,  to  do  it  myself.  For  the 
moment  all  the  decent-looking  artists  are  fight- 
ing so  I  can't.  It  seems  rather  hard  to  sacrifice 
a  sentimental  little  drab  like  Laura  —  what  do 
you  think?  —  however  I  decided  to.  ...  It 
was  nice  in  the  garden  afterwards,  the  sweets  of 
victory.  I  let  him  have  my  hand,  no  more,  — 
Bess's  principles  could  stand  that,  could  n't 
they?  —  and  Linda's.  Oh,  Linda's  loftiness 
really  makes  me  die,  when  I  remember  what 
lies  behind  it.  How  I  hate  her.  .  .  .  That  is 
how  it  is  going  to  be  now,  a  heave  and  shudder 
through  half  a  dozen  households,  as  soon  as  you 
let  a  man  take  your  hand.  You  are  getting  so 
precious,  my  dears.  For  such  of  you  as  manage 
to  save  your  lives  (I  speak  with  confidence)  it 
will  be  worth  it.  Won't  it?  Are  you  still  ob- 
serving,—  spying  that  is?  When  are  you  next 
coming  home? 

1  Teresa. 


254  JAMESIE 

The  Duke  to  the  Duchess,  —  pensive. 
I  think  you  can  be  easy  in  the  long  run  about 
Blakie.  He  is  standing  out  against  Joyce  at  her 
best,  combined  with  the  Kreutzer  sonata  which 
must  be  hard  on  him,  and  driving  the  girl  so 
frantic  by  passive  resistance  that  she  would  even 
have  my  brother  now  if  he  asked  her.  Don't 
tell.  The  trouble  is  that  he  is  not  on,  not  after 
Ireland,  it  is  a  pity  for  her.  ...  I  am  not  so 
sure  the  war  being  good  for  her  infirmity.  It 
would  be  more  the  contrary,  since  she  has  the 
brains  to  argue  it,  in  spite  of  all.  I  always  said 
there  was  a  lot  in  her.  ...  If  Iveagh  were  on 
the  loose  I  am  not  at  all  sure  I  would  not  send 
him  to  marry  and  make  what  he  calls  a  tidy 
woman  of  her,  during  his  next  leave.  Or  you 
might  send  him,  he  would  obey  a  whistle  of  you. 
Did  it  ever  strike  you  how  obedient  he  is  to  us, 
all  things  considered,  —  I  mean,  granted  he  was 
a  rank  rebel  in  infancy?  Just  at  times  it  comes 
home  to  me,  remembering;  I  must  have  trained 
him  very  nicely.  He  has  taken  Mother  off  me  in 
this  matter  of  the  accounts  with  only  a  little 
curse  or  two,  though  he  cannot  like  it.  I  had 
nightmares  about  that,  before  I  thought  of  him. 
I  shall  be  sorry  when  the  war  is  over  and  he 


THE   MEETING-GROUND       255 

returns  to  his  tropical  parasites  again,  for  I 
would  as  soon  keep  a  parasite  of  his  sort  blood- 
sucking upon  me,  and  that  is  the  fact.  ... 

The  Duchess  to  the  Duke,  —  pert. 

.  .  .  You  sound  so  disgustingly  languid  in 
your  last,  —  a  kind  of  Turk  with  a  hookah 
(corpulent)  —  that  I  have  a  very  good  mind  to 
whistle  Iveagh  of  Mother  and  Miss  Kitchin,  — 
and  where  would  you  be  then?  .  .  . 

Madame  du  Frettay,  to  Madame  Colmar. 

MADAME, 

I  write  on  the  part  of  a  young  English- 
woman of  my  acquaintance,  Lady  Suir.  She,  as 
I  gather,  is  interested  in  the  young  man  fiance 
to  Mademoiselle  your  daughter,  who  is  of  the 
household  of  her  belle-soeur  in  London.  Lady 
Suir  is  afflicted,  it  appears,  by  the  strain  that 
has  produced  itself  in  their  relations,  and  asks 
herself  its  origin,  since  your  amiable  daughter 
had  for  this  young  man  an  affection  appearing 
to  all  her  surroundings  truly  sincere.  I  was 
greatly  indisposed,  as  you  will  understand,  to 
meddle  in  the  affairs  of  others,  especially  in  a 


256  JAMESIE 

matter  so  remote  from  my  own  preoccupations 
of  the  foyer,  in  which  each  of  us  at  the  present 
hour  is  so  painfully  bound  up.  But,  Madame, 
arrives  the  claim  of  friendship!  This  young 
Lady  is  truly  distressed.  It  seems  she  knew  the 
young  man,  as  it  were,  personally,  enough  to 
realize  in  him  qualities  out  of  the  common  run, 
such  as  to  assure  your  daughter's  satisfaction 
and  even  good  fortune  in  her  married  life.  Note 
that  I  repeat  her:  my  own  counsel  I  would 
never  venture  to  advance.  You,  and  only  you, 
are  qualified  to  judge,  in  the  matter  of  your 
daughter's  happiness.  It  may  be  Monsieur  her 
father  has  for  her  other  plans.  My  ignorance 
is  perfect  of  your  circumstances :  and  in  writing 
thus  I  blindly  obey  the  dictates  of  friendliness, 
emanating  from  her  urgency  at  my  side.  She 
works  in  the  hospitals  daily,  but  were  it  useful, 
would  be  happy  to  visit  you  at  Sevres. 

Be  so  good  as  to  excuse,  Madame,  this  in- 
trusion of  a  feminine  unknown,  and  to  believe  in 
my  most  distinguished  feelings. 

C.  DU  FRETTAY. 


THE    MEETING-GROUND       257 
Monsieur  Colmar,  to  Madame  du  Frettay. 

MADAME, 

Your  distinguished  attention  has  greatly 
honoured  us,  but  alas!  what  can  I  say?  These 
matters,  with  a  stranger,  however  gracious  and 
amiable,  are  not  to  be  debated.  My  wife  and  I, 
be  certain,  deplore  the  entanglement  with  a 
foreigner,  and  malentendu  resulting,  which 
render  our  daughter  unhappy  for  the  time 
being,  though,  as  we  hope,  not  lastingly. 
Sophie  is  young.  She  has  an  excellent  position. 
The  young  man  did  well  in  enlisting,  and  is 
exempt,  be  convinced,  from  our  attack.  Yet  it 
is  probable  he  has  been  spoiled  a  little  by  the 
life  of  comparative  ease  and  plenty,  with  per- 
mission a  volonte,  which  is  ordinary,  I  am  told, 
in  the  ranks  of  the  British  army  now  resident  on 
our  soil.  He  returns  for  a  slight  wound  to  his 
native  shores,  and  flirts  with  his  nurse!  What 
would  you?  —  it  is  nature:  at  any  ordinary  time 
one  smiles.  But  my  girl  with  her  only  brother 
in  the  anguish  of  our  own  front  lines  cannot  for- 
give him.  It  is  nature,  and  the  nations.  And 
think:  should  a  rupture  on  a  larger  scale  (which 
none  can  contemplate  willingly)  ever  occur, 
how  she  will  discover  the  benefit  of  her  painful 
decision  now! 


258  JAMESIE 

Madame,  I  beg  you  to  agree  to  the  expression 
of  my  most  hot-foot *  homages. 

A.   COLMAR. 

Madame  du  Prettay,  to  her  son,  enclosing  the 
above  two  letters. 

MON  CHERI, 

Write  for  the  love  of  heaven  to  this  female, 
or  to  the  man  attached  to  her,  I  can  no  more. 
Your  fine  wit  will  know  best  how  to  dispose  of 
his  argument,  if  he  has  one,  my  own  logic  gropes 
in  vain.  Are  we,  by  any  chance,  on  the  verge  of 
war  with  the  English?  I  had  not  noticed  it  in 
the  newspapers,  but  nothing  would  surprise  me, 
and  if  it  were  to  be  truth,  one  would  not  see 
the  signs.  I  am  besotted 2  with  cold  and  calam- 
ity, and  the  thought  of  you  in  your  insufficient 
coat.  Oh  my  little  one,  why  wouldst  thou  not 
order  the  superior  one  of  English  leather  I 
recommended,  —  thy  chest,  I  think  upon  it 
night  and  day.  .  .  .  Still,  answer  these  weari- 
some persons  if  thou  hast  a  moment,  because  our 
sweet  Bess  has  it  at  heart,  and  that  angel 3  in 
tears  almost.  He  has  an  inexpressible  cult  for 
the  man  in  question,  a  cult  of  the  cricket-field, 

1  Empresses.  *  Abrutie.  *  Jamesie. 


THE    MEETING-GROUND       259 

perfectly  English,  especially  since  it  is  what  any 
other  than  Bess  would  have  directed  upon  her 
husband,  with  care.  Jamesie  regards  Iveagh  as 
comrade,  rather,  —  as  a  comical  comrade,  —  a 
view  dating  probably  from  the  Irish  days.  It  is 
varied  by  an  occasional  doubt  of  his  temper,  if 
varied  at  all.  It  is  true,  one  would  not  easily 
exalt  Iveagh  to  the  heroic  posture,  —  yet  there  is 
thou,  had  Jamesie  wished  for  an  object!  Is 
there  not  most  evidently  thou?  My  beloved, 
now  listen  to  me.  .  .  . 

[Maternal  advice  of  the  most  intimate  and 
intricate  succeeds,  such  as  was  going  by  shoals, 
through  every  post,  to  the  horizon-blue  heroes 
on  the  Verdun  field.  It  was  not  those  mothers' 
fault  if,  in  the  most  awful  engagement  of  the 
war,  prolonged  under  a  horror  of  snow,  with 
the  mortally  stricken  lying  out  for  days  and 
nights  under  drifts  where  even  the  magnificent 
devotion  of  a  crippled  ambulance  could  not 
reach  them,  —  those  heroes  were  not  completely 
comfortable.] 


260  JAMESIE 

Gabriel  du  Frettay,  to  his  mother. 

MY  BELOVED  MAMMA, 

Listen,  I  have  seldom  been  better,  you  have 
no  need  to  fuss.1  Can  you  not  remember  in  the 
Alps  how  a  few  pints  of  snow  never  came  amiss 
to  me?  Our  good  little  rascal2  is  on  the  way 
to  getting  us  out  of  it,  be  reassured ;  and  we  shall 
yet  see  that  monkey's  beak 3  the  laughing-stock 
of  Europe. 

In  the  meantime  I  am  philosopher.  I  play 
upon  my  flageolet  de  douze  sous 4  Bess  brought 
me  from  London.  I  regret  now  to  have  re- 
proached her  the  reckless  expenditure.  It 
showed  a  just  appreciation  of  what  might  be 
needful  in  the  interludes  of  a  National  Defence. 
I  spent  last  evening,  which  had  been  otherwise 
intolerable,  in  teaching  a  Saxon  prisoner  the 
Marseillaise.  I  thought,  how  wholesome  for 
that  wretched  underling  of  a  ruffling  autocracy. 
But  sapristi!  —  the  ass  knew  it  already.  More, 
he  had  always  deemed  it  a  German  tune.  One 
of  his  compatriots  had  used  it,  it  appears,  to  help 
out  his  addled  music.  What,  are  they  occupying 
even  our  airs  at  present?  I  am  enquiring  who 

1  T'inquieter.  *  General  Petain. 

3  The  Kronprinz.  4  Sixpenny  whistle. 


THE    MEETING-GROUND       261 

the  donkey  is,  that  later  we  may  suppress  him.1 
.  .  .  The  discovery  of  this  rape  alone  disheart- 
ens me,  dearest  Mother. 

A  propos,  I  have  seen  to  your  individuals:  or 
rather,  I  have  dealt  with  their  daughter,  I  am 
convinced  successfully.  Put  the  little  problem 
from  you,  will  you  not?  And  do  not  speak  of 
the  Suirs,  I  beseech,  you  drive  me  wild  with 
irritation.  Iveagh  sends  little  notes  to  me  here, 
which  are  treasures  of  expressive  unimportance, 
when  readable.  His  brother,  now,  worries  one: 
but  he,  as  companion,  is  adorable;  never,  since 
my  first  dog,  have  I  known  a  better.  Naturally, 
he  was  the  same  to  Jamesie,  and  naturally, 
Jamesie's  gratitude  is  adequate,  being  a  gosse  of 
sense.  An  imaginative  child  asks  only  to  be 
upheld,  and  uninterrupted.  Iveagh  has  a  genius 
for  both.  He  won  his  wife,  so  far  as  I  remem- 
ber, chiefly  by  turning  his  back  upon  her.  It  is 
true  his  back  view  is  agreeable;  still,  it  would 
never  have  occurred  to  me  as  a  means  in  itself 
sufficient,  especially  with  so  desirable  a  girl. 
Enfin  —  your  imperceptive  and  earthy  observa- 
tions, dearest  Mother,  have  simply  made  me 
long  for  his  society.  .  .  . 

1  Robert  Schumann. 


262  JAMESIE 

[We  are  informed  by  Bess,  notes  Herbert  on 
this,  that  Madame  du  Frettay  was  inclined  to 
be  jealous  of  her  son's  affection  for  Suir. 
Between  sympathy  for  his  mother,  and  loyalty 
to  his  friend,  M.  du  Frettay  in  daily  life  was 
driven  to  walk  a  tight-rope :  a  literary  feat 
which,  to  judge  by  specimens  like  the  above,  he 
enjoyed  particularly. 

An  inter-ally,  inter-army  exchange  on  post- 
cards took  place  about  this  period.] 

Who  is  Sophie  Colmar  your  people  are  inter- 
ested in?  Sacred  weather  here.  —  G. 

I  have  not  a  notion.  Try  it  a  little  longer 
next  time.  The  weather  is  forsaken  utterly.  — 
1.8. 

Forgive  me,  I  was  elbowed  at  the  time.  She 
seems  to  be  attached  to  her  Graciousness  your 
sister-in-law,  and  affianced  to  a  cricketing- 
gentleman. 

Done  it.  That  would  be  the  pretty  girl  that 
caught  the  Canon  out,  and  none  of  us  able  to 
grin  at  it.  I  did  not  speak  to  her,  as  it  hap- 
pened, but  Janet  has  a  nice  kind  about  her,  you 
may  be  sure.  The  man  is  a  good  man,  twice 
wounded.  Are  you  all  right? 

How    the    everlasting?      Twice    wounded? 


THE    MEETING-GROUND       263 

And  the  hussy  plays  loose  with  him?  Sapristi 
and  sacred  thunder,  I  am  bored  like  the  deuce. 
I  proceed  to  write  to  her. 

What  is  that  about  writing?  I  would  not,  if 
I  were  you.  When  the  man  is  better,  he  will 
explain  himself  and  ease  the  situation.  I  am  not 
stirring  a  finger  in  it,  thpugh  the  Duchess  asked 
me  by  Bess  to  do  so.  We  sit  loose,  we  do  not 
play  it.  I  '11  desert  if  this  wind  goes  on. 

The  censor  missed  that.  Do  not  be  impatient, 
mon  petit,  and  do  as  you  are  told.  Personally, 
I  tell  others.  Here  is  my  letter  to  my  com- 
patriot, Mademoiselle  Colmar.  Read,  before 
you  expedite  to  wherever  her  Grace  is  at  pres- 
ent in  residence.  It  is  thus  the  citoyen  addresses 
the  citoyenne,  in  time  of  war. 

Gabriel  du  Frettay,  to  Sophie  Colmar. 

MADEMOISELLE, 

You  have  no  idea  who  I  am,  but  my  ad- 
dress is  Verdun.  Thus  I  speak  to  you  from  an 
apex  no  Frenchwoman  will  regard  as  incon- 
siderable, and  with  a  weight  —  since  I  may  be 
dead  tomorrow  —  absolutely  parental. 

Mademoiselle,  I  venture  to  place  myself  upon 
terms  of  compatriotism  (a  word  I  have  in- 


264  JAMESIE 

vented)  and  to  beseech  a  hearing.  Lady  Eliza- 
beth Suir,  who  is  the  wife  of  my  dearest  friend, 
has  forwarded  me  a  communication  from  your 
excellent  father,  which  makes  me  rage  in  the 
obvious  though  innocent  marks  it  bears  of  an 
ignoble  propaganda  boche.  There  is  no  bad 
blood  at  the  present  time  between  us  and  the 
English  our  upholders,  on  the  chance  of  which 
he  seems  to  speculate.  The  thing  is  not,  and 
could  not  be,  for  reasons  historical,  economical, 
and  sentimental  which  I  have  fully  explained  to 
him.  Fully:  I  have  made  a  special  study  of  the 
relations  of  these  countries.  Also  it  delights  me 
to  enter  so  unexpectedly  into  an  exchange  of 
views  with  so  manifestly  intelligent  a  personage. 
Thus  — 

Mademoiselle,  I  implore  you  (since  I  may  be 
dead  tomorrow)  to  trust,  as  I  have  always  done 
in  this  matter,  the  dictates  of  your  heart  alone. 
In  a  world  literally  deluged  with  lies  of  all 
sorts,  with  the  Censor's  eye  staring  daily  at  the 
agony  and  love  we  poor  devils  send  by  post, 
there  is  no  safety  but  in  proximity,  and  in  the 
hearts  that  speak.  If  your  affianced  is  wounded 
and  cannot  claim  you,  go  to  him  instantly.  Ar- 
riving there,  exact  the  tete-a-tete,  though  Kitch- 


THE    MEETING-GROUND       265 

ener  himself  were  present,  hold  his  brave  hand, 
and  look  in  his  (probably)  unimpassioned  eyes. 
You  will  know  then,  and  then  only,  the  truth 
which,  if  it  is  as  I  think,  his  letters  could  in  no 
case  conceivably  express.  And  you  will  have 
the  solace  in  addition  of  diddling1  the  boches, 
the  censor,  and  Kitchener  comprehensively. 

Mademoiselle,  I  am  silent,  perhaps  for  ever. 
Forgive  me,  hein? 

Your  friend  and  well-wisher, 
G.  DU  FRETTAY. 

Iveagh,  to  Gabriel. 

Well,  you  know  best,  —  "  perhaps  for  ever  " 
seems  to  me  a  trifle  thick.  Could  you  not  have 
added  your  photograph,  and  shot  a  little  hole 
through  it  with  your  revolver?  I  like  the  last 
thing,  that  is  like  you.  At  that  point,  if  I  was 
the  girl,  I  would  begin  to  wonder  if  I  had  not 
been  wrong  right  through.  However  it  may 
do  the  trick.  I  send  it  to  Holmer,  an  address 
you  might  have  guessed,  if  you  had  not  been  so 
vain  of  it. 

I.  S. 

1  Dejouer. 


266  JAMESIE 

]  ante  si  e,  to  Iveagh. 

[Occurring  somewhere  among  the  last  set, 
goodness  knows  where,  and  answered,  I  will 
warrant,  without  precipitation.  As  usual,  being 
both  undated,  the  pair  throw  out  my  calcula- 
tions.] 

DEAR  FATHER, 

Its  postavely  awful.  What  do  you  suppose 
we  ought  to  do?  You  see,  Sophie  told  Nurse 
she  would  n't  Marry  him  simply,  and  she  did  n't 
esplain  at  all !  Mothers  sure  it  is  n't  Aunt  Janet. 
I  thought  Sophie  might  have  been  wanted, 
sudenly,  and  so  Marriage  rather  dificult  for  the 
Time  been,  but  Mother  thinks  not.  There 
arent  so  many  Parties  since  the  War.  Father 
I  cant  think  what  to  tell  him  if  she  hasnt.  Oh 
it  is  a  Fix!  Mother  says  better  not  write  to  any- 
body, even  Nurse,  as  it  is  a  kind  of  Secret,  par- 
ticular, belonging  to  Sophie.  But  she  wouldnt 
mind  your  knowing  she  said. 

Your  loving 
JAMESIE. 


THE   MEETING-GROUND       267 
Iveagh  to  Jamesie. 

DEAR  JIM, 

Jolly  good  for  you  to  draw  up  a  bit,  your 
custom  nowadays  is  to  let  loose  on  the  world  too 
easily.  I  give  you  my  word  for  it,  secret  sorrow 
is  quite  a  common  thing.  Lots  of  matters  don't 
bear  talking  of,  not  only  nowadays,  there  is  a 
censor  behind-scenes  called  Manners  will  not 
allow  it.  Which  is  as  much  as  to  say,  mind  him 
and  hold  on  to  your  tongue,  especially  where  a 
man  and  woman  are  in  question. 

Having  said  so  much,  I  may  mention  that  the 
present  shine  you  tell  me  about  is  Moonshine 
probably.  It  will  all  go  over  before  you  have 
licked  the  halfpenny  stamps  for  next  month's 
correspondence,  which  will  take  some  time  at 
the  present  rate  of  postage,  three  apiece.  You 
tell  me  how  much  money  you  save  while  you 
are  resting,  —  and  I  will  give  it  you  back  to  buy 
a  wedding-present  for  Sophie. 

In  the  meantime  I  have  a  job  for  you.  You 
can  take  this  pen  to  the  Avenue  de  1'Opera  to  be 
mended  for  me,  and  you  can  write  a  single  letter 
with  its  assistance,  before  you  send  it  back. 

Yours  with  love, 

I.  S. 


268  JAMESIE 

Lady  Iveagh  to  her  husband  —  dated. 

I  wish  you  would  not  write  such  things  to 
Jamesie,  you  are  too  tiresome.  Not  that  he  does 
not  love  it,  since  it  comes  from  you,  —  he  car- 
ried it  into  every  corner  of  the  house,  like  a 
kitten  with  its  first  bone,  to  think  about  it  in 
different  atmospheres,  —  but  really,  it  is  not  on 
his  level  at  all.  Were  you  ever  a  real  child 
yourself,  and  if  not,  whose  fault  was  it?  I  am 
sure  it  was  not  Sir  James',  because  he  always 
agrees  with  me.  Jamesie  is  at  this  moment  writ- 
ing a  letter  to  him,  I  think  on  Irish  affairs,  with 
your  cured  fountain  pen.  The  letter,  because 
of  the  pen,  is  public,  Iveagh.  You  see  the  won- 
derful influence  on  Jamesie  you  allow  to  waste. 

Iveagh  to  Janet,  enclosing  Gabriel  to  Sophie. 

DEAR  DUCHESS, 

Do  not  set  me  on  to  Joyce,  because  I  cannot 
do  her.  The  fact  is  very  simple  that  she  dislikes 
me,  with  reason,  one  being  that  I  frightened 
her,  that  night,  unnecessarily.  I  never  told 
Conor  I  did,  because  it  is  a  very  bad  show  by 
our  way  of  thinking.  You  will  guess  it  is  ani- 
mals I  am  referring  to,  —  forgive  me,  Jane. 


THE   MEETING-GROUND       269 

What  I  send  is  something  better  for  the  pur- 
pose probably.  You  will  have  heard  of  the  man 
from  Wickford.  He  is  a  man  anyone  would 
trust  the  knowledge  of,  and  the  form  and  so  on, 
and  what  is  more  he  is  her  own  sort,  French. 
The  chances  are  the  girl  will  take  him  rightly, 
but  if  I  were  you  I  would  let  her  look  at  it  alone. 
When  she  has  done  curling  you,  or  whatever  it 
is,  I  have  forgotten.  Or  rather  I  never  knew, 
since  Bess  never  had  a  maid,  except  myself,  by 
the  same  token,  once  for  a  week  in  the  Soudan. 
That  was  when  one  of  my  best-behaved  animals  * 
walked  out  and  stung  *  her.  I  cured  her  arm, 
and  I  pinned  her  hair  till  it  was  well,  but  it  was 
a  painful  incident. 

I  saw  Ronald  on  Saturday.  I  do  not  know 
what  he  was  doing  up  this  end,  but  he  looked  in 
about  tea-time,  and  I  had  an  interval,  so  we  con- 
versed. He  had  his  pockets  stuffed  with  news- 
cuttings  he  had  collected  for  my  benefit  about 
Ireland,  and  I  let  him  read  some,  because  in  a 
fashion  it  is  interesting,  one  would  sooner  know. 
Then  I  read  him  Byrne's  last  from  the  spot, 
which  was  unkind  of  me.  He  told  me  how  he 
was  going  to  take  to  flying  instead  of  motoring, 

1  Surely  not  a  horse? 


270  JAMESIE 

in  order  to  be  well  ahead,  after  the  war.  I  hope 
he  will  not  be  well  ahead  into  the  next  world, 
because  he  has  no  gift  for  machinery.  How  is 
Arthur? 

Yours  obediently  always 

IVEAGH   SUIR. 

Janet  to  Iveagh. 

Thank  you.  Sophie  took  it  perfectly,  though 
I  own  I  was  a  little  nervous.  Her  eyes  looked 
brighter,  next  morning,  and  she  is  wearing  the 
letter  from  Verdun  openly  in  the  front  of  her 
frock.  I  think  it  may  do  what  you  call  the  trick, 
the  same  you  did  with  Joyce  —  or  was  it  Bis- 
cuit? —  anyhow  with  poor  dear  Miss  Kitchin 
now.  Are  you  given  to  frightening  your  female 
belongings?  —  because  I  never  noticed  it,  per- 
sonally. Of  course  Bess  may  have  done  so,  all 
alone  with  you  and  the  animals  in  the  Soudan. 

Arthur l  is  very  well,  thank  you,  though  daily 
uglier,  but  it  is  such  an  interesting  ugliness. 
Conor  says  he  is  like  you,  but  at  present  even 
your  Mother  protests.  Arthur  may  be  going  to 
be  the  wit  of  the  family:  he  gives  me  a  wink 
sometimes  that  suggests  more  things  than  he 

1  The  youngest  Suir. 


THE    MEETING-GROUND       271 

will  at  present  divulge.  It  was  nice  of  his  uncle 
to  ask  after  him,  poor  duckling.  He  had  an 
unlucky  entrance  into  the  world. 

Which  reminds  me,  Mother  (mine),  who  is 
still  devoted  to  Joyce,  trusts  in  her  last  that  J.  is 
not  going  to  commit  an  indiscretion,  and  throw 
herself  away,  so  she  has  got  wind  of  it  too.  (It 
is  funny  how  it  matters  what  Joyce  does,  I  sup- 
pose that  is  what  they  call  personality,  —  or  is  it 
temperament?)  Mother  says  she  is  so  "  ro- 
mantic," and  explains  it  to  me  carefully  as  a 
"  reaction  " :  I  suppose  from  the  strain  it  was  to 
Joyce  screwing  herself  up  to  Steenie's  level. 
Oh  dear,  mothers!  I  know  I  shall  be  just  as  bad 
with  Arthur,  one  of  these  days. 

Jamesie's  French  to  Sophie  is  too  wonderful, 
—  he  reminds  me  of  the  clever  statesmen's  chil- 
dren of  the  eighteenth  century,  the  little  Pitts 
and  Foxes  who  grew  up  to  be  distinguished  men 
themselves.  They  managed  two  languages  dip- 
lomatically, or  three,  as  our  little  Royalties  of 
course  do  now.  Only — the  difference!  You 
are  very  fortunate  to  have  him,  Iveagh.  My 
children,  you  see,  though  very  nice,  are  not  en- 
tertaining (except  Arthur).  Jamesie  entertains 
everybody,  even  Ronald,  who  is  not  easily 


272  JAMESIE 

amused.  I  am  glad  you  saw  the  old  boy.  Good- 
bye, dear,  and  be  careful.  I  am  sorry  about  that 
nasty  knee. 

JANET. 


Dialogue,  self  and  Francis,  noted  later,  but 
'wanted  here. 

"  Was  it  true  you  took  Miss  Joyce's  hand?  " 

"When,  sir?" 

"  One  evening,  when  she  and  Miss  Laura  had 
been  playing,  rather  a  long  thing." 

"  Oh  yes,  sir,  —  that.  The  middle  tune  was  a 
good  one,  as  good  as  a  hymn  almost.  We  'd  have 
encored  that  for  certain,  if  they  had  n't  gone  on." 

"  All  right,  I  '11  tell  Miss  Laura.  Don't  ob- 
scure the  issues,  Francis.  Did  you?  " 

"  Oh  yes,  sir,  I  took  her  hand.  In  the  garden, 
you  mean." 

"  That 's  it.    Politeness,  was  it?  " 

"  No,  sir,  by  no  means.  It  was  that  music,  I 
think." 

"Gratitude,  eh?" 

"  No,  sir,  far  from  it.  I  was  as  bad  as  Miss 
Joyce,  that  was  all."  Pause.  "  I  was  nearly 
gone,  all  but.  Only  I  swore  I  would  not  let  her 


THE    MEETING-GROUND       273 

know  how  near  I  was.  Matter  of  pride,  sir.  I 
was  sick  after  it." 

"  What?  " 

"  Since  you  asked.  Of  course,  my  wound  got 
me  low  down.  And  I  was  pretty  sick  in  the 
other  sense  of  waiting,  —  well,  some  time  before 
that.  It  was  the  effect  of  patience,  partly.  And 
there  she  was,  —  well,  you  know  what  she  is. 
And  that  music,  getting  at  you  unfairly."  Pause. 
"  I  suppose,"  said  Francis,  very,  very  gravely, 
"  they  took  me  below  the  belt.  Same  as  we  are 
doing  the  Germans,  sir." 

"  What?  " 

"  Sorry,"  said  Francis.  "  That 's  not  my  joke, 
it 's  one  of  Furniss's.  Matter  of  the  blockade, 
sir,  —  the  hunger  blockade.  Just  part  of  our 
idle  talking.  We  'd  have  preferred  to  keep  it 
an  open  fight." 

"  But  Kitchener  did  not  consult  you?  " 

"  It  was  n't  Kitchener,  sir.  I  gather  the  All- 
iance does  not  countenance  it."  (All-iance  and 
#//-ies,  Francis  said.)  "  Kitchener  had  no 
choice." 

[Self,  flabbergasted.]  "  I  say,  may  I  repeat 
that  joke  to  Lady  Iveagh?  " 

"  Oh,  her  Ladyship  would  have  heard  it," 


274  JAMESIE 

said  Francis,  tolerant.  "  I  told  Mr.  Jamesie  in 
writing,  long  ago.  He  likes  a  joke." 

"  Did  he  follow  it?  " 

"  I  should  n't  wonder,"  said  Francis,  con- 
temptuously. 

Trix  Adler,  at  the  end  of  a  charming  letter  to 

Wickford,  'which  he  chose  to  say  had 

nothing  to  do  with  me. 

.  .  .  and  the  moral  of  that  is,  as  the  Duchess 
said  (not  yours),  that  men  and  women  are  not 
so  easily  alterable,  in  or  out  of  War.  .  .  . 

[Of  course  I  should  have  taken  the  above  as 
motto  to  my  whole  collection,  if  Wickford  had 
not  been  such  a  stickler  in  withholding  it.  I 
here  and  now  apologise  to  Miss  Adler  for  mak- 
ing so  little  use  of  her  excellent  correspondence. 
It  was  just  bad  luck  that  she  was  cut  off,  by  her 
own  adventurous  spirit,  from  the  main  body  of 
actors  in  my  history.] 

Janet,  on  Sunday. 

[I  have  displaced  this  letter,  but  it  dates  itself 
for  the  curious.  It  interested  (and  amazed)  du 
Frettay,  and  it  was  he  who  obliged  me  to  put 
it  in.] 


THE   MEETING-GROUND       275 

I  have  been  thinking  much  of  Steenie  and 
pre-war  times:  dipping  in  the  past,  since 
Mother  is  here.  Dear  Mother,  she  is  wonder- 
ful, —  so  young,  unused,  dependant,  in  spite  of 
all.  For  the  first  time  I  have  taken  her,  Mother 
of  mothers,  into  my  philosophy. 

Think,  Bess.  Where  was  the  meaning,  really, 
of  that  convulsion  of  our  times,  those  bitter 
battles,  bitter  feelings,  we  certainly  used  to 
know.  Is  it  over?  Must  it  not  arise  again?  It 
cannot  really  have  been  solved,  so  easily  I  The 
vote?  —  oh,  rubbish  1  It  was  never  that.  We 
are  going  to  get  that,  are  n't  we,  for  a  set  of 
reasons  that  sound  as  empty  to  me  as  did  those 
with  which  they  refused  it  us,  some  time  back. 
There  is  much,  much  more  in  it  than  Parliament 
ever  speaks  of,  because  it  is  an  infinitely  bigger 
thing.  It  beats  Parliament.  It  smiles  at  coali- 
tions against  a  German  enemy,  does  n't  it?  Be- 
cause the  Enemy  is  always  there.  .  .  . 

Even  in  the  struggle  of  our  generation,  Bess, 
the  Enemy  was  both  sides :  exactly  as  he  is  in  the 
struggle  with  the  Germans  now.  Half  of  us 
were  our  own  enemies :  I  do  not  exempt  myself, 
—  nor  mother.  Lots  of  our  so-called  enemy 
Man  were  nothing  of  the  sort,  —  think  of  the 


276  JAMESIE 

men  fate  has  given  us.  Now  I  am  going  to 
moralise.  .  .  .  Girls  like  Joyce  and  company 
were  not  in  fault,  they  had  the  root  of  the  mat- 
ter, stood  the  racket  bravely.  Men  like  our  men 
were  not  in  fault,  they  had  the  root  of  the  matter 
too.  It  is  by  the  light  of  nature,  not  anything 
acquired  in  Parliament  (good  gracious!)  that 
Conor  grants  me  the  right  to  have,  exactly  in  his 
measure,  no  more  and  no  less,  my  finger  on  the 
facts  of  life.  Steenie  was  in  fault,  —  St.  John, 
-  Mother  as  well.  Mother,  sweet  as  she  is,  has 
been  spoiled  at  others'  expense  her  whole  life 
long.  She  is  a  devoted  wife,  and  she  filled  her 
nest  with  us,  to  Father's  glory,  so  her  business 
was  done,  and  she  sat  to  be  worshipped,  a  moth- 
erly saint.  Wick  wants  to  spoil  me  now,  in  the 
same  way,  for  the  same  reason,  because  I  have 
filled  his  nest.  So  does  Iveagh,  horridly:  real 
men  are  given  to  it.  But  I  will  not.  To  fulfil, 
and  stop,  is  never  a  woman's  destiny.  She  must 
be  ready  to  go  under  what  she  has  made. 

You  remember  the  way  Joyce  (darling!)  used 
to  dilate  on  the  "  kept  woman."  Mother  is  that, 
I  am,  you  are,  Joyce  will  be.  But  there  are 
ways  of  being  it.  Mother  has  a  little  obstinate 
smile  at  times  (you  mentioned  it  in  Mme.  du 


THE   MEETING-GROUND       277 

Frettay)  which  only  thoroughly  spoiled  people 
wear.  Even  in  wartime  she  wears  it!  —  secur- 
ity, since  she  has  her  place.  No  war  of  races 
or  classes  can  touch  it,  —  are  we  not  here,  Craw- 
fords,  to  prove  what  she  has  done?  One  of  us 
is  missing,  truly:  she  has  lost  a  son  by  the  war. 
She  is  adored  the  more  for  it.  But,  Bess,  — 
he  was  less  hers  than  mine.  I  dare  to  say  this  to 
you.  We  were  a  model  Scottish  family,  and  I 
was  the  top  of  it.  It  was  I  worked  for  those 
boys,  suffered  for  them,  not  Mother.  All  the 
later  travail  for  Steenie,  the  bitterest,  most  in- 
glorious, the  real-est,  was  mine  and  Cardie's. 
Really,  Mother  in  her  well-won  security  just 
abstained. 

Bess,  the  first  thing  I  loved  in  Wick  was  that 
he  noticed  this,  he  saw  it  from  the  moment  he 
entered  Mother's  house.  He  worshipped  at  her 
with  the  rest,  he  admired  Meg,  but  he  noticed 
the  facts  of  me.  How  many  men  would  pick  up 
at  a  glance,  like  that,  the  burden  of  an  eldest 
daughter?  Always  straining,  as  I  was,  when 
Mother  was  receptive  and  queensome.  How 
many  men  regard  a  woman  for  her  doing  at  all, 
more  especially  that  kind  of  doing,  not  paid 
work,  but  toiling  at  life.  "  Unsentimental,"  that 


278  JAMESIE 

was  what  Mother  called  him :  all  our  Scots,  over 
women,    are    sentimental    extremely:    we    are 

theories,  not  things  to  them,  —  look  at !    I 

never  thought  Conor  could  want  me,  I  thought 
on  instinct  he  was  making  for  Meg.  She  had 
nothing  to  do  but  be  nice,  which  she  is,  dear 
Meggie.  I  made  friends  with  him,  as  one  must: 
and  with  yours  (whom  he  lugged  in)  just  as 
promptly.  New  brothers,  a  trifle  more  subtle 
than  mine,  they  were.  And  then,  all  unfore- 
seen, he  picked  me  up,  raised  me  high,  —  above 
Mother  herself.  (Of  course  Mother  imme- 
diately changed,  I  was  quite  another  thing  to 
her.)  The  rest  of  it!  I  swore  then  and  there, 
for  that  rest  he  gave  me,  rest  in  his  real  interests 
I  never  would.  I  would  go  on  and  on,  never 
exist,  even  for  him.  Never  sacrifice,  even  to 
him,  new  interests,  views  and  opinions,  arising 
about  me.  Never,  never,  steal  from  Aileen,  as 
Mother  in  all  her  beautifulness,  stole  from  me! 
Don't  tell  them,  will  you?  Because  I  love 
pretending  to  be  honourable  and  rangee  in  nice 
men's  eyes.  I  love  queening  it:  I  even  like  being 
a  duchess,  dreadfully.  But,  until  I  see  things 
fairer  to  all  women,  here  on  earth,  I  will  not  be 
rangee  in  my  own  eyes,  nor  honourable  least  of 


THE    MEETING-GROUND       279 

all.  I  decline,  Bess.  I  am  too  happy  —  too 
blest  —  too  privileged.  Mother,  in  all  her  royal 
progress  to  romantic  contentment,  never  ad- 
mitted that! 

Cardew,  Ronald,  Shere,  du  Frettay,  and  a  few 
generals,  to  self,  Suir,  and  Lady  Iveagh. 

What 's  the  matter  with  Jamesie?    What  has 
dried  up  the  infant?    Why  is  n't  he  writing? 

Jamesie  to  the  Dowager  Duchess  —  in  pencil, 
but  well  written. 

DEAR  GRANDMOTHER, 

I  am  in  bed  with  a  cold.  Mother  says  I 
had  better  not  have  the  ink,  for  reasons,  and 
Father's  gold  Pen  has  gone  back.  It  went 
wrong,  and  he  sent  it,  and  I  took  it  to  a  Gentle- 
man in  the  Avenue  de  1'Opera,  who  shook  it, 
and  so  it  was  all  right.  Was  n't  it  clever?  I 
expect  Father  had  shaken  it  Hundreds  of  times. 
Perhaps  it  was  the  Bombardment  did  it,  I  said, 
and  He  *  laugfed.  He  has  heaps  of  pens  from 
the  Front  to  manage.  Nurse's  sister  at  Holmer's 
better,  you  '11  be  glad  to  hear.  Nurse  said  Trix 

1  The  Gentleman. 


280  JAMESIE 

told  her,  by  Cable.  Must  n't  it  have  been  ex- 
citing, when  it  came!  These  are  Exciting 
Times.  Denise  thought  her  Uncle  was  dead 
once,  because  he  stoped  writing.  Did  you  think 
I  was  dead  when  I  stoped  writing,  Grand- 
mother? l  Because  it  was  only  Father!  Oh  he 
is  Funny,  never  mind.  The  3  Green  Stamps  on 
this  envelope  I  stuck  on  weeks  ago.  Then  he 
suddenly  came  on  Leave  (i  Night)  and  said 
he  had  never  meant  you.  Your  safe!  So  here 
we  are ! 

Your  affectionate  grandson, 
JAMESIE  C.  Sum. 

Jamesie  to  Aileen. 

[NoTE.  —  The  Fitzmacloshlies  were  a  family 
of  eighteen  or  so,  who  belonged  by  right  of  in- 
vention to  Jamesie,  but  were  shared  in  a  cousinly 
and  secondrate  fashion  by  Kells.] 

DEAR  AILEEN, 

I  am  writing  to  you  about  the  Fitzmaclosh- 
lies, because  There  safe.  Once  Starfreeda  (thats 
the  3rd  youngest,  next  to  little  Magnesia,  and 
Baby,  who's  the  youngest  of  all)  wanted  to 

1  Joke,  tentative. 


THE    MEETING-GROUND       281 

marry  somebody.  So  Sandwich  (thats  the  Fitz- 
macloshlie  who  preeches)  said  you  had  better 
not,  because  his  Grandfather  was  probly  a  Ger- 
man. So  Badger  (thats  the  nice  one,  who  was 
back  on  Leave)  said  Hard  Luck!  But  Star- 
f  reeda  did  marry  him.  So  the  Police  exiled  her 
to  an  Island  (there  were  Oysters  luckily).  So 
then  Badger  found  his  Grandfather  was  n't  one, 
after  all.  So  then  the  Police  fetched  them  back, 
and  gave  him  an  English  Uniform,  and  a  Per- 
mis  de  Sejour,  and  a  Laisser-Passer  in  the  Zone 
de  Guerre.  This  is  all  as  true  as  true,  Parole 
d'Honneur! 

Your  loving 
JAMESIE. 

The  same  to  Kells,  containing  an  interesting 
sketch  of  the  centre  of  European  civilisa- 
tion, as  seen  in  late  February,  1916. 

DEAR  KELLS, 

I  am  sitting  outside  a  Restaurant  with 
Father,  not  Mother  because  Men  sit  here.  He 
will  see  this  letter  perhaps.  There  are  5  Poilus 
in  Casques  (Blue)  sitting  at  this  table.  They 
are  drinking  coffee,  like  us.  Whatever  I  said 
they  laugfed,  so  I  let  Father.  He  talks  French 


282  JAMESIE 

(rather)  J  well.  Once  with  Mother  I  saw  a 
Chasseur  Alpin  in  the  Champs  Elysees,  who 
Saluted  me!  She  said  because  I  stared.  I  don't 
think  he  minded.  Perhaps  Father  won't  have 
another  Leave  for  ages,  because  he  won't  ask. 
M.  Gabriel  says  he  could  with  Piston.2  Oh 
dear  only  one  Walk  it  is  awful  never  mind.  All 
the  big  dogs  are  muzled  here  and  look  fright- 
ened naturally.  The  Dust-boxes  stand  out  in 
the  road,  and  the  little  dogs  get  in  when  the 
Chiffonniers  have  finished.  I  expect  the  Trans- 
port has  taken  the  Dust-cart  horses,  because  the 
snow  has  practicly  all  gone,  nothing  but  MUD. 
Love  to  Everybody, 

Yours, 
J.  C.  Sum  (R.F.C.,  etc.). 

[This  leave  of  Iveagh's  seems  to  have  been  an 
eventful  one.] 

Jeannette  to  the  Duchess. 

I  do  not  think  you  need  be  concerned,  my 
dear,  about  your  sister-in-law's  domestic  capac- 
ity. Mad  and  I  met  Jamesie  on  a  car  to-day, 
the  Henri-Martin  car,  one  of  the  last  left  run- 

1  Erased  by  the  Censor. 

2  Untranslatable,  "interest  in  high  places." 


THE    MEETING-GROUND       283 

ning,  and  continually  en  panne.1  He  was  all 
alone,  hands  clasped  between  knees,  affably 
studying  the  ciphers  on  every  uniform  in  sight. 
There  is  never  an  Embusque  escapes  his  eagle 
eye,  I  '11  warrant!  He  had  been  seeing  his 
father  off,  short  leave  I  gathered ;  Lady  Iveagh 
not  attending  them  because  of  a  domestic  upset. 
Report  as  follows  to  Madeleine:  "  It 's  the  next 
Femme  de  Menage  gone  off  to  the  Metro,  rather 
suddenly.  She  thinks  the  pay  is  better,  and  it 
probly  is.  That 's  the  fourth  since  Christmas 
not  counting  the  one  who  went  as  soons  she  came 
before  she  even  took  her  shawl  off.  Mother  says 
she  likes  it.  She  and  Father  cooked  the  dinner 
cas-ully.  And  I  'm  goin'  to  do  the  washing-up." 

The  Dowager  Duchess  to  Lady  Iveagh. 

I  hope  James  is  all  right:  he  speaks  of  a  cold. 
Kells  of  course  has  colds  continually,  but  I  never 
remember  James  being  in  bed  even  for  a  day 
before.  I  always  took  your  word  for  it  he  had 
inherited  none  of  the  Wickford  weaknesses.  I 
hope  the  air  of  the  quarter  you  have  chosen  is 
not  too  damp  for  him.  I  seem  to  remember 
Passy  being  under  water  in  the  time  of  the 

1  Breakdown,  the  motorist's  term. 


284  JAMESIE 

floods.  It  is  extraordinary  to  reflect  nowadays 
how  stirred  we  all  were  about  that.  The 
weather  is  appalling  here,1  such  gales,  and  in 
England  worse;  however  I  am  aware  the  In- 
telligence Department  asks  us  not  to  exchange 
views  about  such  things,  for  what  object,  they 
know  best.  I  really  wrote  to  ask  if  you  would 
order  me  the  following  (list) .  Being  matters  of 
common  family  life,  and  not  even  surgical,  that 
idiot  Kitchin  seems  afraid  to  ask  for  them. 
Really  I  shall  soon  think  such  women  should  be 
married  by  force,  at  least  for  a  month  or  two,  in 
order  to  rub  their  noses  against  realities.  I  have 
to  put  up  with  her  since  (Grievances).  He2 
cannot  be  very  seriously  occupied  where  he  is, 
that  he  is  able  to  interfere  to  such  an  extent  in 
Wickford's  affairs.  And  why  on  earth  should 
he  forbid  poor  little  James  to  write  to  me? 
Except  for  the  word  "  laugh,"  which  James 
never  gets  right,  his  English  spelling  has  im- 
proved remarkably.  It  is  creditable,  since  he  is 
learning  another  language. 

1  Boulogne.  *  Iveagh. 


THE    MEETING-GROUND       285 
Trix  Adler  —  end  of  a  letter  to  Iveagh. 

...  I  am  sorry  to  hear  from  Janet  that  you 
have  quarrelled  with  your  mother  again. 

Iveagh  to  Trix. 

I  have  not  quarrelled  with  her,  I  have  merely 
proved  to  my  own  satisfaction  and  his  that  Miss 
Kitchin  is  in  the  right  of  it.  Of  course  he  knew 
in  advance  she  would  be,  having  had  the  ac- 
countant's training,  whereas  Mother  merely 
came  through  Girton  and  so  on,  and  that  some 
time  since.  .  .  .  However  I  had  the  papers 
here,  both  hers  and  Mother's,  since  you  are 
aware  he  gives  me  the  dirty  work  as  a  rule, 
particularly  where  a  little  breeze  or  two  is  prob- 
able. And  the  Boulogne  set  that  is  Mother's 
feminine  in  the  extreme,  conducted  in  three 
inks  and  bristling  with  question-marks,  touching 
to  handle  for  anyone  that  knows  her  ways.  And 
sure  enough  the  oversight  was  at  her  end,  merely 
an  ought  left  out  in  the  preliminary  finals,  mak- 
ing it  look  as  if  Miss  K.  had  welshed  ninety 
pounds,  —  and  that  poor  peaky  female  acquitted 
entirely.  Well,  how  would  I  not  tell  her  so? 
There  is  her  living  depending  on  it  and  lots  to 


a86  JAMESIE 

come,  whereas  Mother's  future,  what  there  is  of 
it,  is  certain  to  be  comfortable.  I  cannot  see  her 
coming  on  the  world  with  both  of  us  to  back  her, 
and  so  I  consoled  her  when  she  complained  of 
me.  .  .  . 

Miss  Kitchin,  in   her  genuine   hand  of  write, 
barely  known  to  her  employers,  to  Iveagh. 

DEAR  LORD  IVEAGH, 

Can  I  ever  thank  you  enough?  Your 
brother  says  it  is  to  you  I  owe  my  reinstatement, 
and  that  nice  little  summary  of  accounts.  I  had 
never  supposed  my  books  were  without  blemish, 
indeed;  one  has  not  the  time  one  would  wish 
with  three  Funds  running,  all  (thank  heaven) 
so  prosperous,  and  the  shopping  as  well,  which, 
being  the  least  accustomed,  is,  I  own,  the  most 
onerous  part.  I  had  warned  her  Grace  that 
bargain-hunting  and  matters  which  the  conven- 
tional woman  loves,  were  foreign  to  my  clerical 
habits,  and  calculated  to  confuse;  and  when  the 
mistake  occurred  and  she  charged  me  with  it,  I 
was  so  overwhelmed  that  I  could  but  lay  it  to 
the  discomposing  effect  of  that.  Your  wife  will 
support  me,  I  am  sure,  in  the  assertion  that  shop- 
men are  steadily  more  bad-tempered.  They 


THE    MEETING-GROUND       287 

dislike  bargainers  in  these  days,  it  is  too  easy  to 
understand  why.  It  is  every  man  for  himself, 
is  it  not?  We  all  know  what  it  is  now  to  make 
the  ends  meet,  or  to  endeavour  to  do  so.  And 
for  this 1  reason,  as  well  as  the  honour  of  my 
profession,  you  must  let  me  thank  you  again. 

It  is  justice,  may  I  say,  that  we  ask  for.  There 
seems  to  me  so  much  generosity,  rather  sloppy 
generosity,  going  about  the  world.  But  a  little 
stroke  of  justice,  cool  and  clear,  like  that,  at 
exactly  the  right  moment,  builds  one  up  almost 
to  the  old  level  again.  One  has  hopes  then,  that 
when  all  this  rather  wearing  wash  of  sympathy 
and  so  on  is  over,  something  more  solid  will  be 
left.  .  .  . 

["  A  jolly  nice  letter,"  said  Iveagh  when  he 
gave  me  this,  —  he  had  actually  kept  it.  "  It 's 
clear  enough  cricket  is  her  weakest  point."] 

Sophie  to  Francis,  in  a  little  grey  envelope,  en- 
closing a  portrait  of  General  Petain. 

DEAR  FRANCOIS, 

Here  is  a  card   from  my  brother  Louis. 
You  will  be  please  to  know  he  goes  well  and 

1  Poverty? 


288  JAMESIE 

they  will  hold  them.  It  says  in  Paris  now 
largely  that  Petain  will  hold.  The  head  is 
chiffonnee  a  little  that  I  wear  him  in  side  my 
frock.  Yet  not  for  long  since  the  hard  carte 
showed  itself  where  the  soft  paper  letters  do  not. 

SOPHIE. 

Francis  to  Sophie. 

MY  DARLING, 

Thank  goodness  I  can  say  no  more.  Whose 
paper  letters  have  you  in  your  frock?  Unless 
mine,  generals  or  no,  you  are  to  burn  them. 
Marching  orders.  See? 

FRANCIS. 

Sophie  to  Francis. 

MON  CCEUR, 

Sois  sage,  ne  t'emballe  pas,  ne  te  fais  pas,  as 
now  they  say.  Voyons !  He  who  I  have  in  my 
frock  is  very,  very  handsome,  more  beautiful 
than  Miss  Joyce,  with  the  blue  eyes,  the  fine 
features,  and  ecoute!  he  is  lost  for  five  days.  He 
come  back  with  his  biplan,  what  blessing  for  his 
mother.  Hein?  Monsieur  Jamesie  inform  me, 
by  permission  he  says.  Cher  petit  chou,  he  dare 
not  speak  of  you,  he  writes  not.  Shall  I  come 
see  you  soon? 


THE    MEETING-GROUND       289 
Francis  to  Sophie. 

MY  SWEET  HEART, 

What  is  all  this  about?  Who  is  the 
blighter?  His  eyes  won't  be  blue  very  long 
when  I  get  my  feet  again.  Come  down  and  tell 
me  all  about  it,  I  want  you. 

F.  B. 

Sophie  to  Francis. 

No,  my  eyes  to  me  are  ugly  I  have  cried  too 
much.  Yes,  perhaps  well,  but  tell  me  first  if 
you  eat  your  dinner,  man,  and  if  you  see  Miss 
Joyce.  Quick,  tell  me. 

Francis  to  Sophie. 

B Miss  Joyce.    Why  do  you  make  me  say 

what  the  Censor  objects  to?  I  hear  her,  since 
nobody  can  help  it,  when  she  takes  to  plunging 
on  that  eternal  piano.  I  wish  they  would  give 
us  back  our  Gramophone,  at  least  that  only  turns 
on  when  asked  for.  Who  is  that  air-man  you 
talk  of  darling?  I  never  knew  what  it  was  in 
those  fellows  get  the  women,  the  little  wings  on 
their  pocket  probably.  They  don't  have  nearly 
the  time  we  infantry  do  I  can  tell  you.  It  can't 
be  his  lordship,  can  it?  You  would  never  keep 


290  JAMESIE 

him  on  your  heart,  would  you,  Sophie?  Look 
here,  I  shan't  eat  a  scrap  of  dinner  until  you  tell 
me,  that  is  fact. 

Kells  to  Jamesie. 

We  had  a  rotten  game  of  Rounders  to-night 
because  of  those  French.  With  two  of  them  I 
dare  say  I  should  have  expected  it.  Mademoi- 
selle really  wants  to  learn  and  its  high  time 
Gerald  1  did,  but  Mile,  can't  run  far  without 
getting  pumped,  so  I  asked  Sophie  specially  for 
Gerald  to  see  what  a  Rounder  was.  If  she  'd 
bowled  decently  I  'd  have  shown  him.  But 
while  I  was  explaining  the  rules  she  was  singing, 
and  just  when  I  was  ready  for  Gerald  she  picked 
him  up  and  ran  away  with  him  down  the  path. 
Mile,  went  after  to  jabber  at  her,  and  there  I 
was  with  Aileen!  A  jolly  way  for  the  children 
to  learn  the  game!  I  thought  Nurse  might  help 
when  she  came  out,  but  Sophie  went  and  kissed 
her,  as  if  it  was  absolutely  the  ordinarest  thing! 
I  can  tell  you  Nurse  looked  redish  still  she  kept 
her  Hair  and  took  Gerald  to  bed.  So  I  said  I 
had  better  put  the  lesson  off  considering  all 
things,  and  told  Aileen  to  put  the  things  away, 

1  The  third  Suir,  aged  three. 


THE    MEETING-GROUND       291 

and  Sophie  she  'd  better  get  strait  before  she 
went  to  Mother,  and  then  I  went  in. 

Aileen  to  the  Duke. 
[Immaculate,  helped  by  Nurse.] 

DEAR  FATHER, 

We  all  played  Rounders  it  was  Lovely. 
Gerald  fell  down  but  Sophie  stopped  him  (cry- 
ing) till  Nurse  came.  I  love  Sophie  more  than 
Lettice.  Mother  says  I  may  be  Bridesmaid  be- 
cause Kells  and  Jamesie  and  Gerald  and  Arthur 
can't.  They  are  boys.  Kisses  to  Uncle  Cardie 
and  Uncle  Ronald  and  Uncle  Iveagh.  .  .  . 

[So  speaks  the  sole  maiden  of  the  Suir  con- 
tingent, already  modestly  aware  of  her  status 
amid  the  clan.  There  will  be  a  fine  arch  of 
swords,  one  of  these  days,  at  Aileen's  wedding: 
Tim's  Irish  instinct  was  right.  A  simple  scar- 
city may  be  the  plain  cause  why  the  Woman's 
Right  was  so  easily  upheld  in  that  ducal  family.] 

Francis  to  the  Duchess. 

YOUR  GRACE, 

We  are  getting  married  the  end  of  this 
month,1  since  you  make  no  objection  Sophie 

1  March. 


292  JAMESIE 

says  and  I  shall  be  easily  on  my  legs  by  then, 
which  is  all  I  ask.  The  actual  day  we  leave  to 
your  convenience  and  she  is  prepared  in  all  to 
abide  by  your  advice.  But  since  you  ask  my 
ideas,  and  Mr.  Herbert  agrees  with  me  I  place 
them  down.  When  I  go  back,  which  cannot  be 
long,  her  fancy  had  been  to  come  and  visit  her 
parents,  and  then  find  some  work  in  the  hos- 
pitals to  do.  But  I  argue  this,  she  would  see  me 
oftener  if  she  stayed  this  side,  odd  though  it 
may  seem,  that  being  her  Ladyship's  experience. 
It  would  be  by  no  means  easy  to  reach  Paris  not 
being  an  officer  even,  and  more  she  is  used  to 
England  now.  Nor  I  could  not  get  leave  to 
travel  along  with  her  so  little  gained  to  my 
thinking.  I  count  on  the  fact  she  will  be  Eng- 
lish herself  by  then.1  So  since  in  your  Grace's 
kindness  you  offer  to  keep  her,  I  think  far  best, 
and  what  is  more  her  earnings  would  replace 
her  with  her  parents  somewhat,  that  seeming  to 
be  her  father's  line.  As  for  short  visits  to  them, 
though  I  should  like  to  fall  in  for  Sophie's  sake, 
with  the  Sea  as  at  present  I  don't  like  to  think 
of  it.  So  in  short  that  is  my  decision  that  she 
stop.  If  the  old  people  like  to  come  across  to 

1  Joke. 


THE    MEETING-GROUND       293 

her  well  and  good  but  I  doubt  it.  French  don't 
mobilise  so  easy  as  us,  used  to  colonies  and  so  on. 
Yet  one  thing  more  if  your  Grace  will  excuse 
such  length,  and  it  is  not  asking  too  much.  It 
would  be  a  pleasure  to  me  and  a  pride  if  Canon 
Oxborough  would  marry  us.  I  have  not  got 
over  at  his  age  facing  the  horrors  of  War.  It 
was  better  even  than  Captaining  our  Cricket, 
though  that  was  sporting  truly.  Would  your 
Grace  and  those  as  know  him  judge  and  refuse 
beforehand  if  asuming  too  much  in  this.  With 
respectful  thanks  for  all  your  goodness  to  her. 

Yours  obediently, 
F.  BLAKIE. 

The  Duchess  to  the  Canon. 

DEAR  UNCLE  LIONEL, 

Do  you  remember  Francis  Blakie,  one 
summer,  a  Century  and  a  century  since,  156  not 
out  against  the  girls?  Well,  he  is  marrying  one 
of  those  same  girls,  my  little  French  maid  who 
fell  over  her  wickets.  You  might  have  forgotten 
her  (though  pretty)  but  you  would  not  him. 
He  is  now  a  still  greater  man,  a  convalescent 
Corporal  in  the  Staffs,  and  he  requests  you  as  a 
peculiar  favour  to  marry  him.  Is  there  a  chance 


294  JAMESIE 

of  it,  at  Holmer,  first  days  of  next  month,  or  last 
of  this?  Of  course  we  should  love  to  have  you 
there,  on  whatever  excuse.  I  am  sending  Wick 
to  Paris  for  the  purpose  of  bringing  off  Bess  or 
Jamesie,  one  or  the  other.  Mother  (his)  will 
probably  be  over  too.  Aileen  is  to  be  brides- 
maid, in  a  frock  full  of  windows.  Now,  Uncle, 
can  you  resist? 

P.S.  —  Conor  may  bring  off  Iveagh's  beau- 
tiful French  Captain  too,  if  he  is  handy,  and 
resting.  A  blue  uniform  would  complete  my 
little  maid's  romance,  and  I  do  want  it  to  be 
nice  for  her,  since  they  have  been  through 
tribulation.  I  don't  ask  you  if  you  know  M.  du 
Frettay,  because  all  the  family  does,  but  me. 
Conor,  though  he  calls  him  a  rotter,  simply 
pores  over  his  letters,  written  in  slangy  French 
and  classic  English  alternately;  and  Ronald, 
who  looked  at  him  once  in  Paris  in  pre-war 
days,  was  seriously  struck  by  his  "  form." 

The  Canon  to  the  Duchess. 

MY  DEAR  JANET, 

Resist?    Is  it  likely?    Why,  bless  the  man, 
what  does  he  mean  by  not  asking  me  in  person? 


THE    MEETING-GROUND       295 

Using  a  woman  as  a  cat's-paw  after  a  show  like 
that,  I  had  thought  better  of  him  (let  him  see 
this).  I  will  shake  hands  with  him  first,  and 
marry  him  second,  and  kiss  the  bride  third  if  he 
is  not  careful.  Remember  her?  Are  you  aware 
what  you  are  saying,  Janet?  She  caught  me  out. 
Never  mind,  I  forgive  her,  and  her  whole  nation 
as  well,  since  this  magnificent  resistance.  They 
have  caught  the  lot  of  us  out.  One  of  our  boys, 
to  one  of  their  girls?  Why,  I  feel  quite  cheered 
by  the  prospect.  We  only  need  our  young 
scoreswoman,  what  was  her  name,  to  be  (as 
Farrar  puts  it)  an  entire  and  perfect  chrysolite. 
Where  (by  the  way)  does  that  quotation  come 
from?  If  it  is  the  Bible,  Scotchwoman,  don't 
tell  my  parishioners  I  asked. 

Your  affectionate  uncle, 

LIONEL  OXBOROUGH. 

[Scrawled  in  later,  and  with  a  wearier  handJ] 

Du  Frettay,  now,  —  I  met  him  twice.  Read 
yours  again.  First,  Iveagh  brought  him  to  call 
in  my  working-morning,  and  he  told  me  several 
things  new  to  me  about  the  English  Church. 
Smart  young  rascal,  trying  to  catch  the  old  man 


296  JAMESIE 

at  every  turn,  —  but  he  did  not.  Next  was  at  a 
school-treat  you  must  have  heard  of,  which 
turned  into  a  fairy-tale,  as  things  did  then.  Du 
Frettay  might  have  stood  for  the  fairy-prince, 
too,  only  the  princess  fell  to  Iveagh.  Pretty 
girls,  pretty  follies,  Janet.  Spring  then,  was  n't 
it?  —  and  they  call  this  spring!  Cruel,  cruel. 
"  Fled  is  that  music  —  do  I  wake  or  sleep?  " 

L.  O. 
Denise  to  Kells. 

[Evidently    Kells    admired    this    letter,    see 
later.] 

MONSIEUR  LE  MARQUIS, 

I  desire  with  Grandmaman  to  thank  you 
and  your  Mother  profondly  that  you  invite  me 
with  Jamesie  to  the  Mariage  of  my  compatriote 
Mademoiselle  Colmar,  but  Alas!  Such  joy  I 
am  oblige  to  refuse.  I  find  not  easy  to  inter- 
rump  my  Studies  nor  my  Sadness  of  days, 
though  it  is  true  my  Uncle  en  Permission  for 
the  moment  enjoys  your  gracious  Father's  so- 
ciety. Yet  we  see  already  the  end  of  his  term 
expire  with  trembling.  I  promise  him  I  will 
leave  no  more  his  Mother's  side.  The  Future  is 
dark.  Thus  I  will  see  part  Jamesie  with  desola- 


THE   MEETING-GROUND       297 

tion,  regret,  but  firmness.    Must  women  not  also 
hold  the  post? 

With  salutation  most  heartfull  to  your  sister 
also, 

I  inscrite  myself, 
DENISE  MONTEIL. 


Gabriel  du  Frettay,  to  the  Duchess. 

MADAME, 

The  enclosed  disgusting  composition  seems 
to  be  the  best  my  niece  can  improvise;  but  in 
mere  self-defence  I  must  add  a  word  to  it.  The 
reference  to  myself  I  trust  I  need  not  say  is  pure 
invention;  my  mother  would  not  miss  Denise  to 
speak  of,  whereas  your  nephew  she  will  miss 
regularly  when  the  hour  of  his  accustomed  read- 
ing comes  round.  It  is  extraordinarily  kind  of 
you  and  characteristic  of  the  remembered  hos- 
pitality to  ask  her.  Had  I  myself  the  requisite 
permission,  who  more  willing  to  escort  her,  and 
make  the  acquaintance  of  Wickford's  Duchess, 
of  whose  charm  and  wisdom  from  Iveagh  I  have 
heard  so  much!  With  what  eagerness  would  I 
revisit  the  loved  corners  of  Holmer  and  of 
Hatchways,  —  with  what  satisfaction  would  I 


298  JAMESIE 

dislodge  this  trumpery  Amazon  from  her  ped- 
estal! My  countrywomen's  attitude  has  been 
admired,  but  mon  Dieu!  attitude  is  not  every- 
thing. It  is  towards  yours  one  looks  for  acts,  it 
is  still  you  who  possess  the  signal  martyr.  .  .  . 
Wickford's  family,  his  daughter  also,  I  fain 
would  see:  see  alone,  for  I  am  afraid  of  chil- 
dren. Jamesie's  English  beauty,  sane  and 
straight,  has  been  the  solace  of  this  my  short 
breathing-interlude  from  the  senseless  indecency 
of  our  life  beyond.  I  fear  my  pen,  like  my 
tongue,  halts  in  English  nowadays.  Excuse  me, 
hein? 

Yours  obliged  and  devoted, 

G.  DU  FRETTAY. 

[So  the  "  sadness  of  aays  "  creeps  into  every- 
thing, even  his  careless  gallantry.  But  the  fol- 
lowing is  free  from  it.] 

Document,  indescribable. 

To  DEAR  FRANCIS  AND  SOPHIE  (illuminated). 
Congratulations  from  the  Suir  family. 

I  can  trust  Jim  to  make  remarks  for  me. 
Good  luck  to  you,  Blakie. 

I.  S. 


THE   MEETING-GROUND       299 

We  are  sorry,  Sophie,  for  its  rather  def raichie 
condition. 

E.  S. 

It  had  to  go  to  the  Front  and  Father  kept  it. 
I  painted  the  dear  Francis  and  Mother  painted 
the  Sophie.  She  made  Lilies  and  Roses,  and  I 
made  the  Flags.  M.  Gabriel  wanted  to  help, 
but  we  did  n't  let  him.  He  is  sending  his  Photo- 
graph. We  have  simply  Dozens  too  in  case  of 
the  Police.  Father  says  Perhaps  I  may  come 
he  will  see  about  it  Francis.  So  au  Revoir  Mes- 
dames  and  Gentlemen,  vive  la  Patrie! 

N.B.     I  would  have  put  Debout  les  Morts 
and  On  les  Aura,1  but  Mother  would  n't  let  me. 
JAMES  CONNELLAN  SUIR. 

[I  pause,  says  Herbert,  because  I  doubt  my 
courage  as  documentary.  Would  not  that  serve 
well  enough,  as  the  end  of  our  romance?  How- 
ever, I  sort  the  remainder,  since  du  Frettay 
urges  me.] 

1  Parisian  catchwords  of  the  period. 


300  JAMESIE 

Controversy,  Kells  and  Jamesie;  which  must 
have  occurred  quite  early  in  this  section,  to 
judge  by  the  date  of  Bess's  letter  attached. 
It  'was  this  letter,  given  me  by  Kells'  nurse, 
'which  spurred  me  to  hunt  up  the  corre- 
spondence. Jamesie  begins: 

I  was  talking  to  Sandwich  *  once,  and  Sand- 
wich said,  just  supposing  we  had  lots  of  lives. 
And  just  supposing  you  died  in  this  one,  and 
woke  up  and  found  yourself  a  German,  what 
would  you  do?  Would  n't  it  be  horrible?  Be- 
cause you  would  think  about  the  Belgians  and 
Miss  Cavell  and  the  Lusitania  and  the  tumble- 
down Churches  and  Gassing  and  Liquid  Fire 
and  heaps  of  things.  Well!  I  couldn't  say 
much.  Its  only  to  be  hoped  we  wont,  I  said,  so 
longs  we  're  English.  So  Sandwich  said 
further,2  Yes.  Only  we  have  to  be  decent  Eng- 
lish here  and  now  not  just  go  one  better  than 
the  Germans.  So  I  told  Francis  what  he  said 
and  F.  B.  said  it  was  a  bit  of  All-Right!  (It 
was  Mother  realy.)  That's  all  that  happened 
that  time. 

J.  C.  S. 

1  The  serious  Fitzmacloshlie,  who  preeched. 

1  Sandwich  always  "says  further,"  while  Badger's  style  is  brief. 


THE    MEETING-GROUND       301 

Kelts  —  magnificent. 

I  don't  think  you  'd  better  mix  the  Fitzma- 
closhlies,  who  are  Old  Pretending,  with  serous 
things.  Theres  only  one  thing,  according  to  us,1 
you  could  do  if  you  found  yourself  a  Boche,  as 
per  contra  your  letter,  that  would  be  to  shoot 
yourself  with  your  Enfield  and  be  found  by 
your  orderly  in  the  morning,  dead.  Then  it 
would  be  seen  to  be  something  like  Roman  His- 
tory, and  the  corspondent  coming  by  would 
make  a  story  or  perhaps  a  Despatch  about  it, 
when  it  was  known  who  you  were.2 

Yours,  K. 

[Jamesie  dreamed  about  this,  which  demon- 
strated, I  cannot  but  think,  the  Duke's  son's 
Irish  blood.] 

No  but  look  Here  [he  started  fresh]  Sand- 
wich, who  is  awfully  like  Mother  in  what  he 
thinks  at  times,  said  further,  this.  If  you  woke 
up  a  German,  you  would  be  proud  of  been  a 
German,  every  bit  as  proud  as  Lady  I.  and  Cor- 
poral F.  B.  to  be  English  (because  Sandwich 
knows  them)  or  Private  T.  G.  to  be  Irish,  or 
M.  le  Cap.  du  F.  to  be  French,  or  Miss  T.  A.  at 

1  The  Clan  Crawford.  *  Kells. 


302  JAMESIE 

Salonika  to  be  Stars  and  Stripes.  (That  was  a 
kind  of  joke  for  Sandwich,  because  he  makes 
them  like  Uncle  Lionel  not  very  f  uny  but  People 
laugf.)  Well!  I  said  I  'd  tell  my  Cousins  but 
he  must  n't  be  suprised  if  you  were  different. 
Because  such  is  Life!  Mother  modeled  in  snow 
on  the  balcony  a  White  Rabbit  sitting  up.  You 
simply  cant  think  how  heavenly  it  was  till  its 
Ears  went  because  I  kissed  them  too  hard. 

J.  C.  SuiR. 

I  simply  can't  help  it  about  the  Fitzmaclosh- 
lies  [added  Jamesie  artlessly  in  a  postscript] 
they  are  always  saying  things  and  I  have  to 
listen  I  hear  them  different  voices.  Father 
asked  how  Badger  was  the  other  day.  Hows 
Badger  he  put.  Because  he  knew  he  had  been 
Wounded  rather  Bravely  never  mind. 

J.  C.  S. 

I  Ve  given  up  kissing  rabbits  [Kells  went  off 
at  a  tangent]  and  girls  except  my  Silkworms 
occasionally.  I  explaned  to  Aileen.  And  I 
wont  have  Biscuit  kissed  by  her  now  he  's  my 
Charger,  anyhow  I  don't  believe  he  likes  it 
really.  She  must  do  without  us  both.  I  only 
might  perhaps  her,  like  Uncle  Ronald  does 


THE   MEETING-GROUND       303 

Mother,  when  I  'm  home  on  Leave.  And  even 
then  its  more  Mother  Ive  noticed.  Its  quite 
easy  to  let  her  and  not  to,  I  have  tried. 

Yours,  etc., 

KELLS. 

P.S.  —  Aileen1  wants  to  know  how  Badger 
was  wounded. 

Lady  Iveagh  to  Kelts. 

Dear,  do  you  mind  my  answering?  Jamesie 
did  not  even  read  it.  Partly  he  was  at  St.  Ger- 
main, and  partly  I  did  not  want  him  to  when 
he  came  back.  I  looked  into  your  envelope  to 
get  news.  I  don't  want  him  to  follow  your  ex- 
ample, and  pretend  to  kiss  his  mother,  letting 
her  do  it.  I  have  known  men  go  through  life 
letting  women  do  the  loving  and  the  slaving,  but 
they  are  men  who  make  England  no  better. 
Perhaps  they  treat  England  their  Mother  in  the 
same  way,  taking  all  and  paying  nothing,  or 
paying  with  pretence.  As  for  their  own  special 
Mother  —  no!  Kiss  her,  will  you,  for  me  to- 
night? 

Love  from  us,  yours, 

E.  S. 
*  ? 


304  JAMESIE 

' 
Nurse  to  her  recovered  sister  at  Salonika. 

I  grant  Lady  Iveagh  has  got  in  with  Kells 
where  I  could  not.  I  grant  it  freely.  She  got 
him  on  his  own  ground,  Patriotism,  and  there  I 
never  thought  of  it.  He  hid  the  letter  and  pre- 
tended it  was  nothing,  but  he  was  excited  all 
day,  and  at  night  I  found  him  in  a  state.1  It  is 
nerves  I  know  well  enough,  half  his  scenes  are 
that.  I  am  fearful  always  with  such  natures. 
Making  out  to  disdain  me  and'  his  mother  too,  yet 
he  will  never  have  the  strength  to  do  long  with- 
out someone.  I  soon  had  it,2  —  putting  his 
mother  and  England  together  for  him,  I  call  it 
genius.  And  the  Lamb  he  can  be  when  he  likes, 
so  simple,  and  that 's  the  real  child,  I  tell  every- 
body. I  fetched  his  Mother  finally,  having 
asked  him.  You  could  see  her  relieved  as  much, 
poor  woman,  she  has  cares  enough.  She  talked 
to  him  some  time.  She  and  Jamesie's  between 
them  have  settled  my  fears  for  some  time  to 
come.  I  can  only  pray  to  be  allowed  to  carry 
it  on.  ... 

[And  when  the  Scotch  nurse  said  Prayer,  she 
meant  it.  She  spent  much  upon  Kells. 

1  Crying.  2  Kells'  confidence. 


THE    MEETING-GROUND       305 

I  pass  on.  Shere  was  smashed  up  in  the  first 
week  of  March.] 

Joyce  to  Jeannette. 

I  have  an  idea  of  crossing  to  Paris  presently, 
to  look  about  me,  so  warn  Mad  in  case  she  seizes 
the  occasion  to  clear  out  to  Salonika,  and  leave 
me  her  car.  I  have  several  reasons  for  coming. 
One  is  the  secret  service,  since  Reuss  gave  me 
some  messages  once  which  till  this  minute  I  had 
forgotten.  And  though  I  have  no  special  desire 
to  oblige  a  Boche,  senile  and  sentimental  always, 
overfed  then,  but  thin  as  I  hope  by  this  time, 
still  it  might  be  rather  alluring  tracking  his 
acquaintance  down.  They  are  probably  cele- 
brated people;  also  if  I  managed  well,  I  might 
be  taken  for  a  spy.  I  should  rather  fancy  my- 
self as  a  German  Jewess,  because  I  have  known 
some  fairly  handsome  ones.  Another  reason  is 
that  unadulterated  English  Tommies  make  one 
bilious.  A  taste  for  hymn-singing,  —  and  shar- 
ing the  hymn-book  with  her,  —  is  at  the  root  of 
all  their  characters.  I  don't  wonder  the  Conti- 
nent calls  us  uprighteous  hypocrites  the  least; 
because  you  can't  be  uprighteous,  being  a  man, 
without  being  a  hypocrite,  can  you?  Except 


306  JAMESIE 

over  your  side,1  where  they  go  one  better  still. 
No,  France  is  the  land  for  me.  I  have  thought 
so  ever  since  this  time  last  week,  when  I  hap- 
pened to  see  the  photo  of  that  young  aviator 
Maddie  mentioned,  the  one  that  knows  Bess 
Suir.  I  now  understand  from  Wick  that  he  has 
long  been  dying  to  know  me  —  impersonally. 
He  told  Iveagh  so,  and  Iveagh  never  informed 
me,  little  rat.  ...  I  never  yet  conducted  an 
impersonal  interview,  any  more  than  in  the  old 
days  I  could  ever  manage  when  the  Captain 2 
suggested  I  should  make  an  impersonal  appeal. 
It  always  grew  personal  at  once,  as  soon  as  I 
caught  the  eye  of  the  man  in  the  street.  Bless 
him,  and  how  he  came  after  me,  gaping,  —  O 
the  dear  old  days! 

My  last  reason  of  all  is  Linda,  who  will  cer- 
tainly, if  this  goes  on,  make  an  all-fired  ass  of 
herself  over  Shere.  From  the  minute  she  heard 
Jack  was  broken  up,  and  would  never  be  any 
good  again,  her  one  squirrel-in-a-cage  idea  has 
been  to  chuck  all,  arid  join  on  to  him.  She  may 
or  may  not  poison  Reginald  first.  The  bother 
is,  Reggie  is  frightfully  sorry  for  her,  —  oh 
Lord,  the  idiotic  situation  it  is,  —  can  women 

1  America.  2  Feminist  camp. 


THE   MEETING-GROUND       307 

never  see  things  straight  for  an  instant?  What 
will  she  gain  by  making  a  fool  of  herself  over  a 
dying  man,  who  does  n't  want  her,  —  so  I  have 
had  a  set  of  the  usual  scenes  with  her,  when  all 
I  want  is  to  get  in  a  corner  and  cry  about  Jack. 
What  are  the  men  all  doing,  getting  knocked 
about?  It  is  spoiling  everything,  and  I  fail  to 
see  the  sense  of  it,  anyhow  just  as  I  did.  The 
colour  has  gone  out  of  it,  and  the  style,  —  proof, 
I  have  to  chuck  up  things  rather,  and  go  to 
Wickford  about  it,  since  he  has  got  some  decency 
and  common-sense.  Monk  has  n't  either.  .  .  . 
When  it  comes  to  a  pass  like  this,  you  must  have 
men,  confound  it.  And  a  kind  that  see  with  you, 
as  that  lot  do,  without  fussing  and  climbing  on 
pedestals,  and  raking  up  the  past.  I  wish  he  had 
a  little  more  finesse  and  originality,  that 's  all, 
he  always  strikes  me  as  rather  a  second-best. 
And  yet  I  do  loathe  a  touch-me-if-you-venture, 
this-style-and-no-other  man,  —  I  suppose  I  may 
be  hard  to  satisfy.  Wickford  is  recalled,  or  has 
recalled  himself,  about  this  Irish  ferment,  which 
is  worse  than  appears  (Janet  told  me  privately) 
.  .  .  look  out  how  you  use  my  facts;  and  that 
is  why  he  offered  to  bring  over  Mad's  protege, 
the  kiddy  Suir.  I  shall  pin  him  if  I  possibly 


308  JAMESIE 

can  for  an  interview :  he  will  be  in  demand,  but 
he  may  have  time  for  me.  I  hope  he  does  not  go 
on  to  Ireland  instantly,  —  bother  politics,  what 
do  they  matter  compared  with  a  question  like 
this?  Think  of  Jack  as  he  was,  and  think  of 
Linda  —  I  won't  say  how  —  and  think  of  Regi- 
nald, snivelling  almost.  At  the  worst  I  shall  be 
driven  to  go  to  Janet:  and  Janet  is  jealous  of 
me,  and  oh,  she  is  Scottish-pie.1  .  .  .  Anyhow,  if 
Linda  insists  on  crossing,  she  does  not  cross  with- 
out me.  I  shall  be  coming  along  with  her.  And 
I  ask  you  as  a  neutral,  Jeanie,  —  as  a  neutral  in 
the  old  scrap 2  and  the  new  scrap,  —  to  cover  up 
the  move. 

Jeannette  to  Joyce. 

Why,  that  is  good,  and  we  shall  be  as  pleased 
to  see  you  both!  But,  my  dear,  she  never  will 
get  to  him,  and  for  two  reasons.  One  is  that  he 
cannot  see  anybody.  Mad  knows  from  a  girl 
in  the  hospital.  Another  is,  Linda  is  neither 
relative,  engaged  to  him,  nor  bears  his  name.  It 
is  not  so  easy  for  the  casual  female  to  pass  the 
guards  on  the  serious  cases.  It  is  not  like  the 
novels:  now  every  doctor  in  the  universe  is  a 

1  Pious.  *  Joyce  classifies  as  I  do,  evidently. 


THE   MEETING-GROUND       309 

little  clay  god :  with  a  temper  instead  of  a  heart 
attached  to  him,  since  they  are  driven  most  to 
death.  Bedside  incidents,  and  she  could  hardly 
avoid  it,  are  barred  by  the  faculty  anyway.  She 
had  much  better  wait,  till  these  same  little  gods 
settle  about  him;  better,  I  mean,  than  hanging 
about  the  hospital  bureau,  which  looks  badly, 
and  is  useless,  and  would  worry  her  life  out. 
Give  her  my  love  and  Mad's,  and  say  we  will 
keep  the  eye  of  a  neutral  lynx  upon  him,  and 
wire  you  regularly.  Any  friend  could  ask  that, 
I  am  bulletining  Beatrix  on  the  subject.  Still, 
being  in  England,  I  will  address  the  wires  to 
you.  But  don't  let  her  think  for  a  moment  we 
should  not  love  to  have  her  come. 

[Joyce  alludes  above  to  Ireland.  Ireland  lay 
at  the  back,  of  course,  of  all  these  latter  develop- 
ments, with  which  the  letters  deal.  The  con- 
stant preoccupation  can  be  tracked  in  the  Duke's 
sober  epistles,  and  it  has  the  touch  of  despera- 
tion, always,  in  Iveagh's.  He  could  stand  no- 
body on  the  subject :  unless  perhaps  Byrne.  He 
snubbed  his  brother,  was  rude  to  me,  and  out- 
raged (as  I  understand  since)  Ronald  Craw- 
ford's best  feelings.  As  for  Tim,  to  Francis, 
that  scape-grace  free-lance  was  sardonic,  or  in- 
different, —  until  he  stopped  being  either.] 


3io  JAMESIE 

Iveagh,  in  a  temper:  to  his  wife  of  course. 

Will  you  answer  this,  or  get  Wickford?  I 
suppose  he  has  the  leisure  for  it,  fooling  round 
the  theatres  with  you  and  Gabriel.  He  had 
better,  for  if  I  do  at  length  I  will  let  myself 
go.  I  do  not  feel  as  saint-like  now  as  I  did 
when  I  sat  in  his  office  over  there.  I  feel  wild 
at  times.  I  have  my  reasons.  She  *  is  right 
enough,  there  is  no  sense  in  the  scheme  of  things. 
She  is  right  every  word  she  says,  and  you  can 
tell  him  so.  He  had  better  preach  a  little  to 
her,  just  as  it  takes  him,  I  give  up.  I  thought 
that  man2  would  get  through  somehow,  being 
nothing  of  any  particular  value  to  them  beyond. 
What's  the  good  of  taking  him?  He  could 
never  do  even  his  own  business  properly.  His 
manners  to  his  family  were  not  select.  It  is  only 
I  wanted  him  in  the  life,  cheeking  me,  not  an 
ugly  corpse.  I  call  this  a  useless  business.  I 
have  broken  my  little  flash-light. 

I.  S. 

Look  here  let  the  boy  write  to  Mary,  he  has 
something  of  the  angel  left  in  him  [added 
Iveagh  hastily]. 

1  Mary  Geoghan.  *  Tim. 


THE   MEETING-GROUND       311 

[Whether  Jamesie  did  or  not,  I  cannot  say. 
If  so,  it  remained  treasured  too  closely  in  those 
hands  "  beyond  "  to  come  my  way.  Mary's  own 
I  have,  and  Bess's  about  it.  The  Duke's  to 
Mary,  after  a  pause,  I  discard,  though  kind 
enough.  It  is  a  statement  of  his  political  faith, 
and  any  reader  of  intelligence  can  guess  the  sort 
of  thing.  I  am  not  concerned  in  this  collection 
with  politics,  —  except  Jamesie's.  And  his  were 
fitful,  —  thank  the  Saints!] 

Mary  Geoghan,  Castle  Wickjord,  addressed  to 
Lord  Iveagh  Suir. 

Will  your  lordships  darling  help  my  poor 
mother  or  else  your  ladyship  I  write  to  the  pair 
of  you  asking  you  of  your  goodness  to  forgive. 
Tim  is  gone  from  us,  and  it  is  not  only  the 
Money  failing  us  nor  himself  who  being  the 
last  was  close  to  her  mind  for  all  his  pranks  and 
absense,  it  is  the  trouble  of  it  in  our  present 
Case.  For  has  he  not  given  his  heart's  blood 
for  the  army  that  is  opressing  us,  and  why 
would  he  have  gone  so  far  away  to  die  in  a  foren 
land  for  a  foren  cause  when  his  own  needed  him 
for  Her  delivery?  Where  is  the  sense  of  it  that 
speak  of  Belgium?  All  countries  has  their 
wrongs  and  some  may  speak  of  it  and  call  aten- 


312  JAMESIE 

sion  and  others  drag  themselves  in  exile  or  in 
captivation  for  no  more  an  Act  than  kissing  their 
country's  flag.  Where  is  the  reason  if  there  is 
anny  in  all  of  it  darling,  you  that  had  the  heart 
for  us  this  long  while  if  the  Soldiers  have  not 
changed  you  which  I  pray  but  do  not  beleve.  It 
is  out  of  the  vally  of  Death  we  turn  to  you  who 
must  remember  at  least  our  will  for  loyalty,  that 
has  seen  your  ladyship  our  pride  in  him  and 
striving  to  beleve  and  trust  when  not  too  over- 
taken as  at  present  time. 

Dutifully, 

MARY  GEOGHAN. 

Dearest,  I  am  sorry  dreadfully  [wrote  Bess, 
picking  truth  out  of  two  words  in  her  husband's 
scrawl].  I  am  glad  you  answered  her,  even  if  it 
was  only  a  line  or  two,  though  his  was  certainly 
very  nice.  He  showed  it  me.  Only  all  I  could 
think  of  was  how  much  nicer  yours  would  have 
been  if  you  had  said  all  you  wanted  to.  As  you 
would  have,  if  you  had  been  sitting  saint-like 
in  the  untidy  office  out  there,  and  she  had  come 
to  you  crying.  That 's  the  worst  of  you,  you  are 
much  more  afraid  of  paper  than  you  are  of 
people,  —  I  told  Wick,  and  he  agreed.  It  is 


THE    MEETING-GROUND       313 

that  she  wants  too,  poor  darling,  —  tragic  she  is. 
Oh,  those  are  the  tragic  people!  The  mothers 
and  sisters  of  the  happy  warriors,  fighting  with- 
out a  back-thought  in  a  cause  they  are  sure  of, 
are  blest  in  comparison.  ...  I  hope  you  have 
not  broken  all  your  things,  throwing  them  about 
while  you  felt  like  that.  Or  was  it  only  the  flash- 
light? J.  is  sending  you  another.  [Lady  Iveagh 
added]  Aileen  will  mind. 

Iveagh  to  Aileen. 

Will  you  write  to  me,  darling,  now  Tim  has 
gone  forward?  I  '11  never  be  so  good  a  soldier, 
but  I  am  as  good  a  horseman  as  he  was.  Send 
me  a  line. 

IVEAGH  Sum. 

Aileen  to  Iveagh  —  not  helped  by  anybody. 

I  write  to  you  dear  not  to  cry  have  all  Tims 
horses  and  Fathers  and  my  I  made  one  eting 
Grass  for  Uncle  Ronald  I  love  you  kisses  from 

AILEEN. 

Iveagh  to  Aileen. 

Thanks,  that 's  the  ticket.  Send  me  a  picture 
next  and  I  will  be  better  because  my  knee  hurts. 

IVEAGH  Sum. 


3i4  JAMESIE 

[Fury  among  the  Crawfords  at  the  front. 
Cardew  writes  recriminating  to  Wickford,  and 
Ronald  solemnly  appeals  to  Janet.  He  could 
bear  Suir's  attitude  on  Ireland,  says  Ronald, 
but  Aileen  was  another  thing.  The  picture  of 
the  horse,  did  Janet  observe,  had  been  intended 
for  him,  Ronald,  —  it  had  his  name  on  it.  Now 
Suir  had  got  it,  and  said  it  was  a  very  good 
horse,  and  would  not  give  it  up.  It  was  not  as 
though  he  could  really  ride,  wrote  Ronald,  with 
his  knee  in  its  present  condition,  unless,  of 
course,  he  had  exchanged  from  the  cavalry  on 
false  pretences.  It  was  the  usual,  pestilential, 
Suir  Swank  with  girls  that  Janet  knew  about. 
..."  I  do,  dear,"  said  Janet] 


Kells  to  Jamesie. 

Well  of  all  Side!  Heres  Aileen  made  up  a 
song  now  about  writing  to  Uncle  I.  and  nobody 
else  but  her  being  alowed  to.  I  like  that.  I 
told  her  I  would  here  and  now  if  I  happened  to 
have  to  about  anything  special  like  for  instance 
Biscuit's  cough.  He  did  have  one  the  other  day 
when  he  had  been  eating  bullrushes.  And  now 
of  course  I  can't  ask  Tim.  So  I  just  send  this  bit 
to  put  along  with  yours,  or  not  if  he  is  waxy,  be- 
cause then  I  can  tell  the  child  its  gone.  Lettice 


THE   MEETING-GROUND       315 

says  Green  says  Mother  told  Grandmother  he  is 
in  a  Precious  Wax  about  your  coming  with 
Father  when  he  is  n't  alowed  to.  Well  of  course 
Father  is  first  in  Requirment  considering  the  H. 
of  Lords.  Were  as  I  should  say  the  Aviation  is 
more  useful  where  it  is.  I  only  mention  this  to 
you,  you  need  n't  show  him,  besides  he  probably 
knows  it  which  is  why  he  Grouses.  I  hope  you 
will  come  I  say  no  rotting  because  its  about  time. 
Theres  my  Birthday  too  though  no  one  seems 
to  think  of  it.  That  French  kid  writes  decent 
letters.  Say  we  're  sorry  and  all  that  because 
I  Ve  no  time  1  for  writing  French. 

Yrs  etc.,  etc., 
KELLS,  K.C.B. 

[It  was  about  the  8th  or  9th  Wickford  came 
over,  his  knowledge  being,  as  his  son  said,  "  in 
requirement  "  at  headquarters.  He  looked  wor- 
ried a  bit  as  was  natural,  otherwise  superbly 
well.  He  had  acquired  something  of  the  snap- 
pish manner  of  the  high  command,  which  strove 
with  the  Irish  current  of  his  customary  speech 
rather  amusingly.  I  lunched  with  him  at  his 
Pall  Mall  Club,  —  now  in  exile  like  most  of 
them,  —  and  I  took  Corporal  Blakie,  who  was 
of  course  presentable  anywhere.  It  had  been 

1  ? 


316  JAMESIE 

one  of  my  particular  and  private  designs  to  get 
the  Suirs  and  Francis  into  contact.  So  far,  they 
linked  together  by  their  womenkind  only;  ex- 
cept officially,  as  it  were,  on  the  cricket-field, 
they  had  never  met.  The  trouble  was,  Wick- 
ford  was  the  Suir  who  constantly  came  over; 
and  he,  though  he  recognised  Francis's  claim 
politely,  was  a  Duke.] 

"  Have  you  got  Jamesie?  "  I  started  naturally. 

"  I  have,"  said  Wickford.  "  How  are  you, 
Blakie?  Nobody  else,  I  am  afraid,  Herbert." 

I  said  I  did  not  expect  her,  mendaciously. 

"  Jim,"  said  the  Duke  to  both  of  us,  "  is 
planted  at  Holmer  with  my  lot,  till  my  mother 
goes  back.  Whether  or  no  inclusive  of  the  wed- 
ding." He  shifted  his  eyes.  "  Sorry,  Blakie." 

"  Don't  mention  it,  your  Grace,"  said  Francis 
gravely.  "  I  hope  Lord  Iveagh  is  well." 

"  Well,  that 's  it,  —  he  is  not  specially.  It 
might  be  this  business  beyond,  affecting  him. 
He  's  been  harrying  all  and  sundry,  a  fair  bit." 
He  glanced  at  me.  "  Iveagh  's  grousing,  —  I 
can't  make  him  out.  He  might  not  have  liked 
letting  me  have  the  infant,  wantin'  his  skilled 
supervision  to  see  things  nice  enough.  What 's 
the  joke?" 


THE    MEETING-GROUND       317 

"  Is  n't  the  divinity  hedging  a  duke  enough 
for  him?" 

"  It  is,  just,"  said  Wickford.  "  Only  just.  I 
told  him  his  best  hope  was  to  have  another,  then 
he  need  n't  be  so  inordinately  vain  of  this  one." 
His  eye  moved  to  the  wounded.  "  Are  ye  not 
sitting  down?  " 

We  did  so,  for  a  moment  or  two.  It  was  nice 
to  be  talking  to  a  Suir  again ;  one  gets  to  the  roots 
of  things  with  them  so  quickly,  dukes  or  other- 
wise. I  found  I  could  ask  immediately  what  I 
most  desired  to  know. 

"  Is  he  vexed  with  Bess?  " 

"  No,  no :  Bess  has  her  business.  He  sent  her 
word  by  me  she  could  stay." 

"  Perhaps  he  hoped,  nevertheless,  you  would 
persuade  her." 

Wickford  looked  at  me  surprised.  "  Janet 
said  that.  What  has  got  you  both?  Why 
would  n't  the  boy  tell  me  so,  if  he  wished  it? 
None  would  have  been  readier  than  I  to  per- 
suade her.  You  don't  doubt  that?  "  —  as  we 
laughed. 

"  No.  It 's  a  pity  Janet  was  n't  there,  that 's 
all.  She  might  have  ventured  to  overrule  him." 

Wickford  owned  she  might. 


3i8  JAMESIE 

"Why  did  Blakie  smile  at  me?"  he  de- 
manded, across  the  luncheon-table,  when  he  had 
done  the  nice  thing  by  Francis,  and  Francis  had 
gone. 

"  He  's  a  bridegroom :  you  must  excuse  him." 

"  Come  off,  — why  did  he?  "  said  Wickford. 
The  pair  have  an  easy  trick  of  interrogatory, 
casual  as  it  were,  that  gets  you  before  you  know. 
I  told  him. 

"  I  daresay  he  was  reminded,  as  I  was,  of  a 
former  conversation.  Something  he  had  heard 
about  you." 

"  About  me?    Blakie  had  heard?  " 

"  Yes.  Not  at  all  to  your  discredit.  Only 
that  you  were  in  Iveagh's  hands.  Under  his 
thumb,  was  the  expression." 

The  Duke  took  it  easy.  "  Oh  well,  I  may  be. 
She  is  not." 

"  She  is  more  so,  if  you  mean  Janet.  Only 
she  is  not  allowed  to  know  it.  That 's  his  art." 

"  Is  it  indeed?  "  Wickford  considered,  in  the 
interludes  of  carving  duck.  "  That  was  a 
woman  said  it,"  he  next  observed.  "Was  it 
Joyce?" 

"  Oh,  well  done."  I  congratulated.  "  Joyce 
it  was.  Whatever  made  you  think  of  her?  " 


THE   MEETING-GROUND       319 

"  Why  should  n't  I  think  of  her?  She  is  not 
easily  left  out.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  got  a  letter 
from  her  this  morning.  Do  you  mean  she  dis- 
cussed my  brother  with  Blakie?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  so.  Discussing  is  hardly  the 
term  for  it,  either.  She  dismissed  your  brother's 
character." 

"  Public  character?    That  is  Steenie." 

"  Private  as  well."  Interval.  Wick's  bird 
engrossed  him,  to  the  exclusion  of  Iveagh,  and 
all  else. 

"  Was  this  the  musical  occasion?  "  he  next 
asked. 

"  That 's  it.  What  a  lot  you  know.  After  the 
Kreutzer,  in  the  garden.  She  let  fly  at  him 
finally,  Francis  said:  I  suppose,  for  Francis's 
benefit." 

"  I  like  that  idea,  discussing  him  for  the  ben- 
efit of  Blakie,"  said  Wickford,  disapproving. 
He  settled  to  the  duck,  —  and  dropped  the 
Duke.  "  It 's  a  mania  the  girl  has.  She  did  so 
with  Shere.  It  appears  now,  my  brother  took 
her  by  the  scruff  once,  in  the  course  of  conversa- 
tion. Just  shook  her  and  left  her,  no  more,  — 
only  now  it  is  clear  to  himself  he  should  have 
avoided  it.  He  ought  to  have  steered  clear  be- 


320  JAMESIE 

tween  that  course  and  kissin'  her,  so  he  informed 
me,  —  indeed  it  is  obvious,  —  because  she  en- 
joyed it  nearly  as  much.  As  a  second-best  the 
sensation  was  agreeable.  She  cannot  forget  the 
remembrance  of  it.  That,"  finished  Wickford, 
"  would  be  Joyce's  kind." 

"  Thank  you,"  I  said.  Really,  one  got  on, 
with  Wickford.  "  Well,  Iveagh  has  done  for 
himself." 

"  I  feared  so,"  said  Wickford,  sympathetic. 
"  Is  she  in  love  with  him?  " 

"  I  said  he  had  done  for  himself,  Wickford. 
I  told  you  she  took  away  every  rag  of  his  char- 
acter, did  I  not?  " 

"  She  might  think  him  better  without  it." 
The  Duke's  mouth  gave  a  little  twitch.  "  So  he 
would  be  I  should  n't  wonder.  She  's  a  girl  of 
taste." 

"  I  believe  you  both  admire  her,"  I  observed. 

"We  do,"  said  Wickford.  "And  what  is 
more,  it  is  rather  tempting  to  a  man  —  a  man  of 
Iveagh's  sort  —  to  take  her  up.  It  would  need 
some  attention,  but  it  is  tempting.  It  would  be 
worth  it.  I  mention  this  between  ourselves." 

"  Is  he  in  love  with  her?  "  I  chaffed. 

"  He  is  not,  —  more  pity  for  the  girl,"  said 


THE   MEETING-GROUND       321 

Wickford.  "  But  he  would  like  to  see  her 
sensibly  settled.  We  both  would,  —  the  way 
she  goes  frisking  about  beyond  the  pale." 

"  The  paling,"  I  substituted.  "  Are  you  quite 
sure  it  is  a  biped  we  are  discussing,  Duke?  " 

He  laughed  simply:  but  I  saw  his  eyes.  He 
had  that  kind  of  affection  for  Joyce,  flattering 
really:  for  it  meant,  she  impressed  him  first  as 
being  beautiful,  and  wild,  and  young.  I  should 
like  to  have  had  Iveagh's  impression  to  lay 
alongside,  because  he  knew  Joyce  rather  better; 
but  he  never  talked  so  easily. 

"  Did  the  girl  get  at  Bess?  "  he  inquired  pres- 
ently: chiefly,  as  it  seemed,  to  make  conversation 
over  the  duck.  He  was  not  greatly  concerned 
about  it. 

*(  She  pitied  Bess's  ignorance,  —  knowing 
herself  so  much  more  of  men  and  travellers." 
A  glance.  "  Am  I  to  tell  you?  Francis  said  it 
was  a  good  case  she  made  out,  capable.  She 
struck  him  as  a  clever  girl." 

"  She  is  so,"  said  Wickford.  "  And  she  ought 
to  be  in  your  trade,  according  to  my  wife.  She 
has  the  gift  for  it,  —  forensic.  You  never  heard 
her  in  the  streets?" 

I  said  I  had  not  had  the  pleasure.     He  re- 


322  JAMESIE 

mained  concerned  with  Joyce,  for  all  I  could 
do.  I  pushed  Francis's  claim. 

"  Blakie,"  I  said,  "  seemed  to  hanker  a  little 
to  state  the  other  side." 

"What,  defendin'  him?"  Wickford  was 
duke  again. 

"  He  said  he  had  an  inkling  about  it,  though 
arguments  failed."  Sniff  from  Wickford.  "He 
said  as  a  rule  a  woman's  attack  on  a  man  is  not 
worth  listening  to,  but  this  was  well-managed." 

u  Fascinatin' !  "  Wickford  looked  at  the  ceil- 
ing. "  I  suppose  he  reads  Tit-Bits" 

"  Will  you  be  quiet,  Wick?  He  reads  Shaw 
and  Bergson,  among  other  things.  He  has  an 
excellent  taste  in  literature.  He  listened  on  this 
occasion  largely  in  my  interest,  to  report  to  me." 

"  That 's  it.  Regular  scrap-heaps  of  scandal, 
you  advocates  are.  Go  on." 

"  I  shan't,  if  you  are  so  unpleasant.  He  said 
your  brother  was  the  right  subject,  to  begin 
with." 

"  What  does  he  know  about ?  " 

"  He  bowled  along  with  him.  Sit  still.  He 
said  his  lordship  was  all  there,  nothing  too 
much,  and  nothing  missing,  as  it  might  be  in 
cleverer  gentlemen." 


THE    MEETING-GROUND       323 

"  Golly!  "  said  Wickford,  attracted.  "  That 
was  one  for  you." 

"  I  am  very  much  afraid  it  was.  He  said  in 
addition  that  —  do  sit  still,  Wick,  —  no  doubt  it 
was  true  enough  about  travellers  and  tropical 
climates;  that  you  get  beyond  all  laws  there,  — 
that  it  is  common  sense  you  do,  —  except 
human." 

"What's  he  mean  by  human  laws?"  shot 
Wickford,  sitting  still. 

"  That 's  what  I  wondered.  And  human 
laws,  added  Francis,  there  are  n't  any,  not  ac- 
cording to  Miss  Joyce." 

The  Duke  laughed.  "  What  did  you  say?  " 
he  asked  soon. 

"Well,  to  tell  the  truth,  one  finds  it  hard, 
these  days,  to  stick  up  for  the  existence  of  human 
laws."  I  looked,  and  his  eyes  followed  me,  to 
the  casualty  page  of  the  Times. 

"  Shere  's  wounded,  by  the  way,"  he  said  sud- 
denly. "  That  girl  Linda  has  got  a  knock.  .  .  . 
Herbert,  it  is  queer  the  man  finding  that  to  say, 
for  it 's  true  enough,  in  my  brother's  case.  It 's 
not  a  man  without  laws  for  himself,  and  bitter 
ones,  can  come  through  a  life  such  as  his  has 
been,  without  losing  by  it.  I  grant  that.  Would 


324  JAMESIE 

it  be  that  Blakie  meant  by  human  laws,  every 
man's  law  for  himself  in  horrid  circumstances?" 

"  I  gathered  it  would  be  that  exactly,  because 
of  the  sequel.  I  asked  Francis,  did  he  think 
himself,  after  his  experience,  that  there  were 
human  laws?  " 

"  To  be  sure."  Wickford  fell  in  quickly. 
"  He  has  been  in  something  hotter  than  tropi- 
cal. He  could  judge  a  bit." 

"  Francis  said,  there  was  nothing  he  was  surer 
of.  Did  I  think  a  War,  he  said,  which  was 
Politics,  (I  should  not  like  to  convey  his  con- 
tempt), can  touch  a  question  of  that  sort?  Did 
I  think  Religion  could,  Wickford?  His  Hu- 
manity was  much  beyond." 

"  Beyond  religion?  " 

"  Before,  if  you  will.  Did  I  think,  he  said 
finally,  unless  he  believed  in  Human  Law,  he 
could  dare  to  do  what  he  was  doing  next  week." 

"  Returning  to  France,  is  it?  Oh,  marriage!  " 
—  His  tone  altered  oddly.  He  had  been  strain- 
ing to  follow  me,  —  now  he  was  on  his  own 
ground  again. 

"  Exactly.  He  is  badly  in  love,  and  has  been 
for  two  years  back.  He  is  allowed  by  the 
powers  of  the  day  to  get  well  enough  to  marry 


THE   MEETING-GROUND       325 

her,  in  order  to  leave  her  almost  immediately. 
And  his  first  thought  is  to  invoke  human  laws, 
not  kick  at  the  military  ones  that  are  tormenting 
him.  How  is  that?  " 

"  It 's  about  the  thing,"  said  Wickford.  He 
heaved  himself  up,  between  the  courses,  and 
went  to  the  hearth.  "  You  know,  our  men  are 
like  that.  They  put  us  to  shame,  out  there,  at 
every  turn,  and  all  round  the  basket.  Talk  of 
the  turn-over,  —  often  I  think  our  best  chance  is 
to  let  them  come  uppermost.  It  is  the  best 
chance  for  the  future,  among  other  things." 

"  Just  so."  I  looked  at  his  back  view,  which 
is  as  nice  as  Iveagh's,  —  perhaps  more  prosper- 
ous. "  Not  that  you  are  doing  much  harm  at 
the  top,  en  attendant." 

"  Oh,  come  off  it!  I  am  an  arrogant  fool.  I 
wish  I  had  had  the  sense  to  talk  to  him  lately; 
but  I  cannot,  I  have  not  the  gumption,  nor  the 
training  for  it.  The  boy  does  it  best."  He 
waited,  gathering  himself  for  an  effort  really 
across  his  pride.  "  Look  here,  will  you  tell  me 
what  Blakie's  feeling  was  you  mentioned,  in 
Iveagh's  favour,  when  Joyce  set  on  him?  I  'd 
like  to  know." 

61  He  called  it  an  inkling,  not  a  feeling.    I  was 


326  JAMESIE 

certain  it  would  be  the  counter-charge,  against 
Joyce's  character.  By  all  the  instincts  of  my 
dull  and  dangerous  calling,  Wick,  I  thought  it 
was  bound  to  be.  But  it  was  n't,  —  it  was 
Jamesie." 

"  I  was  wondering  if  it  would  n't  be,"  said 
Wickford  gently.  "  Oh,  Lord!  " 

A  solution  by  Jamesie. 

I  had  been  reading  [wrote  Jamesie  to  me  out 
of  the  blue]  lots  in  the  Library  about  the  Irish 
Kings.  They  were  good  Kings.  In  those  times 
we  could  read  properly,  in  Grandfather's  Li- 
brary, heavenly  smelling.  I  loved  that  Place. 
I  think  it  would  be  right  to  have  a  King  there, 
friends  with  King  George,  like  Uncle  Wick. 
But  perhaps  the  Horseless  Earl  1  would  be  bet- 
ter, because  he  knows  Judgement 2  and  Religion. 
This  is  a  Public  letter  from  Paris  (last)  because 
I  have  Uncle  Wick's  Army  Pen. 

J.  C.  S. 

1  Byrne.  *  Justice? 


THE    MEETING-GROUND       327 

Feuilleton,  by  Jamesie:  reported  by  Bess  and  du 
Frettay  in  collaboration,  and  brought  over 
to  show  us  by  Wickford.  It  occurred  in 
Madame  du  Fret  fay's  drawing-room. 

JAMESIE.  "  Once,  when  Badger  Fitzma- 
closhlie  met  a  lady  on  the  front  called  An- 
gele-" 

MADAME  (shocked).  "My  child,  there  are 
no  ladies  on  the  front." 

GABRIEL.    "  Above  all,  not  called  Angele." 

JEANNETTE.  "  She  is  invariably  a  femme-de- 
chambre  in  a  first-class  boarding-house." 

JAMESIE.  "Well,  when  he  met  her,  and 
meant  to  marry  her,  he  found  he  could  n't,  pos- 
subly.  Why  do  you  think?  " 

GABRIEL.    "  Because  he  had  a  rendez-vous." 

MADELEINE.  "  Because  he  was  married  al- 
ready." 

JAMESIE  (beaming).  "Yes/  Only  he  had 
forgotten  about  it,  why  do  you  think?  Because 
he  had  a  little,  weeshy  bit  of  obus  in  his  brain." 

GABRIEL  (to  his  mother).  "  All  is  well.  He 
met  her  on  the  front,  but  in  a  hospital." 

MADELEINE.  "  Luckily  he  remembered  in 
time,  Jamesie.  Was  it  the  doctor  helped 
him?" 


328  JAMESIE 

JAMESIE.  "  Yes,  —  getting  it  out.  The  very 
minute  it  was  out,  he  es-plained  to  Angele  —  " 

BESS.    "  In  French,  I  hope." 

MADELEINE.  "  He  would  have  to  get  over 
the  ether." 

JAMESIE.  "  Yes,  he  did.  He  got  over  it  very 
well." 

GABRIEL.    "  And  out  of  it" 

BESS.    "  Is  that  all  about  Badger,  Jamesie?  " 

JAMESIE.  "  Not  quite.  Because  he  went 
home  to  Blighty,  as  you  'd  es-pect.  And  he  saw 
in  London  the  person  he  was  really  married 
to  —  " 

JEANNETTE.    "  What  was  her  name?  " 

MADELEINE.  "  Lady  Badger,  of  course.  Go 
on,  Jamesie." 

JAMESIE.  "  And  so,  he  told  her.  And  so  she 
—  she  thought  it  better  to  write  to  Angele." 

GABRIEL.  "  Evidemment,  espece  d'episto- 
laire." 

MADELEINE.    "  Public? " 

JAMESIE.    "  Rather  public." 

GABRIEL.  "  Diplomatic,  hein?  What  did 
she  say?  " 

JAMESIE.  "  Oh  well,  there  is  n't  much  to  say 
about  such  things,  —  is  there,  Mother?  She 


THE   MEETING-GROUND       329 

said  —  she     just     said  —  '  Mademoiselle,     que 
voulez-vous?  —  c'est  la  guerre." 

[Jamesie,  I  think  I  may  say  looking  back,  was 
completely  happy  at  Holmer.  The  "  scrap  " 
that  occurred  there,  inevitably,  concerning  him, 
was  over  his  head.] 

Gabriel  du  Frettay  to  Herbert  —  our  first 
exchange. 

Will  you  excuse,  Monsieur,  my  addressing 
you  without  other  preliminaries  in  these  par- 
ticular times?  You  will  be  very  kind  to  reas- 
sure me  by  a  word  that  Suir's  son  is  well.  He 
is  in  the  strangest  fever,  and  will  display  it  to 
nobody,  unless  by  hints  and  outbreaks  probably 
unconcerned  with  his  preoccupation.  I  never, 
personally,  thought  him  strong  enough  to  do 
this  wearing  work.  He  is  sleepless  also  from 
that  crock-knee  he  had  which  has  never  cured 
completely  owing  to  his  culpable  impatience  to 
disregard  it,  —  which  adds  to  his  nervousness. 
I  do  not  attempt  Wickford,  whose  fuss  about 
nothing  is  familiar  to  me:  I  do  not  appeal  to 
the  little  Duchess,  because  I  do  not  know  her, 
though  perchance  you  might.  I  do  not  ap- 
proach the  mother  of  Suir  for  a  multitude  of 


330  JAMESIE 

reasons,  each  better  than  the  last,  though  it  is  a 
matter,  to  my  French  taste,  in  which  the  mother's 
word  would  serve  peculiarly.  Nothing  would 
induce  me  to  disturb  his  wife.  Get  my  friend 
Jamesie  to  write  to  him  would  be  the  simplest, 
for  on  his  own  part  he  refuses  to  write.  He  does 
not  write  to  me  till  I  have  bombarded  him  to 
the  verge  of  insult,  which  was  useful.  But  I 
offer  the  word  of  a  friend  that  he  is  wretched ; 
and  (may  I  add  in  a  safe  quarter)  any  mental 
distraction,  for  our  actual  calling,  ought  not  to 
be.  ... 

Herbert  to  du  Frettay. 

DEAR  DU  FRETTAY, 

I  have  heard  much  of  you,  so  shall  not 
apologise  further  for  the  unconvention.  I  gath- 
ered from  Wickford  his  brother  was  out  of 
temper,  which  is  nothing  novel.  It  is  Ireland 
probably,  since  he  has  a  rooted  conviction,  never 
of  course  expressed,  that  if  left  to  himself  he 
could  govern  that  country.  I  will  not  tell  Wick- 
ford  your  opinion,  —  nor  Janet,  for  a  reason 
you  will  scoff  at.  She  believes  in  "  second 
sight."  What  is  more,  I  have  heard  her  assert 
that  her  brother-in-law  has  the  faculty,  almost 


THE    MEETING-GROUND       331 

to  the  degree  of  her  own  Highland  mother,  who 
is  remarkable.  Thus  in  these  times  we  cannot 
afford  the  work  that  would  be  made  of  it.  To 
shut  one's  eyes  and  prophesy  evil  is  a  safe  spec, 
nowadays,  and  hardly  worth  giving  money  for. 
Anyone  with  the  faintest  sibylline  capacity, 
ought  as  a  matter  of  course  to  be  off  their  heads. 
Jamesie  is  well,  bonny,  and  eats  like  a  Trojan. 
His  knees  are  both  there,  being  black  when  I 
saw  them  with  scouting  in  the  shrubbery,  or 
acting  as  a  warhorse  to  carry  Aileen,  or  both. 
He  had  sent  a  postcard  without  prompting  to 
his  father,  and  I  gave  him  another  to  send  to- 
morrow. He  "  really-and-truly  "  has  no  time 
for  letters.  He  is  perfectly  resigned  to  coming 
back  when  they  want  him,  wedding  or  no. 
Iveagh  is  a  little  ass.  I  wondered  too  that  the 
boards  passed  him,  and  twice  over.  His  own 
doctor  would  never  have  done  so,  as  I  happened 
to  know.  Only  he  looks  smart  and  slick,  and 
has  that  traveller's  knack  of  passing  muster 
(they  have  to  learn  it)  which  would  carry  him 
into  Hell  if  he  chanced  to  turn  curious  as  to 
the  parasites  there.  The  only  place  it  will  never 
take  him  to  is  Heaven,  his  friend  Byrne  agrees 
with  me.  Do  not  for  your  life  let  him  know  I 


332  JAMESIE 

wrote  you  about  him,  —  he  and  I  are  forever  on 
the  verge  of  duelling  as  it  is.  Excuse  haste  in 
this. 

Yours, 
ST.  J.  HERBERT. 

[Du  Frettay  to  Bess's  aunt  is  missing.] 

Bess's  aunt  to  her  —  postcard. 

What  is  it,  my  dear  child?  G.  seems  anxious. 
Is  your  husband  vexed?  The  child  is  perfect, 
needing  nobody,  creating  joy  for  himself  and 
others,  es-ploring  with  Kells  and  Kaffir l  down 
in  the  Hatchways  wood. 

Bess  to  her  aunt. 

It  is  nothing  but  that  I  am  a  Fool,  and  he  un- 
selfish utterly.  He  hoped  I  would  go  with  J., 
longed  for  it,  I  know  too  late;  I  ought  to  have 
guessed  that  he  would  not  say.  I  might  have 
known  he  would  never  force  my  conscience,  nor 
let  Wick  cajole  me,  when  he  would  not.  In- 
stead, he  cleared  all  round  me,  as  he  used  to  do 
in  the  forest,  snicking  off  the  snaky  creepers, 
and  he  left  me  free.  And  I  thought  of  my  silly 

1  Iveagh's  dog. 


THE    MEETING-GROUND       333 

soldiers,  and  I  did  not  think  of  him,  one  proper 
minute,  or  set  myself  to  imagine,  through  Wick's 
description  of  his  nasty  sulks,  what  he  must  have 
wanted.  As  if  I  don't  know  them.1  ...  Of 
course  if  I  had  seen  him,  for  one  second  —  if 
he  had  come,  touched  me,  —  it  is  the  curse  of 
reports  and  writing  we  are  condemned  to  live 
on  now!  We  are  not  made  for  it,  he  and  I,  we 
can't  manage,  —  St.  John  and  suchlike 2  had 
better  give  us  up.  It  is  not  Wick's  joking  about 
him,  or  his  careful  little  notes,  —  careful  and 
creeping,  on  padded  paws,  going  about  me  with 
a  longside  look  to  make  me  comfortable  —  that 
I  want,  Ernestine.  It  is  his  self  —  oh,  I  am 
dreadful.  Sometimes  I  think  Janet  is  right, 
after  all, — I  only  love  Jamesie  through  him. . . . 

[Perhaps  I  had  better  remark,  lest  Lady 
Iveagh's  images  startle  the  unwary,  that  she 
was,  as  artist,  a  passionate  student  and  devotee 
of  the  cat-tribe.  Personally,  I  loathe  the  crea- 
tures. Nor,  I  will  say  for  him,  is  Suir  the  least 
like  one.  He,  and  Jamesie  too,  are  much  more 
like  (say)  a  reclaimed  jackal,  or  a  decent  sort 
of  dog.  But  I  venture  to  guess  it  was  intended, 
in  Bess's  letter  concerning  him,  for  a  compli- 
ment] 

1  The  sulks.  2  Oh,  Bess! 


334  JAMESIE 

Iveagh  to  the  Duke  —  extract. 

When  I  said  a  fortnight  I  meant  a  couple  of 
weeks,  and  I  supposed  Mother  did  too.  She 
dropped  remarks  my  way  about  "  military  ex- 
actitude." I  am  also  on  to  that.  Jim's  leave  is 
up  the  twenty-second,  which  date  his  mother 
wants  him.  Colonel  -  -  at  Boulogne  may  not 
want  Mother  as  much,  I  can't  say.  She  wants 
to  stretch  a  point  for  Kells'  birthday,  is  n't  it?  — 
I  have  no  doubt  so  does  Jim.  Only  he  will  do 
what  his  mother  tells  him,  and  no  other,  see  he 
is  warned.  The  wedding  we  cannot  manage 
anyhow,  tell  Blakie.  .  .  .  All  Bess  asks  is  to 
know  where  and  when  Mother  gets  off  with  the 
boy,  so  she  can  meet  and  pick  him  up.  I  have  no 
objection  to  Mother  welshing  him  across  to 
Boulogne  on  his  Majesty's  service,  or  for  the 
glory  of  God,  or  whatever  else  she  is  engaged 
on,  especially  as  in  those  cases  I  would  n't  have 
to  pay.  But  if  she  lowers  herself  to  the  level  of 

the  common  crowd,  and  gets  into  ,  I  had 

better  know.  Not  even  she  can  alter  the  geog- 
raphy-books, nor  patch  up  the  train-service  be- 
tween the  ports.  I  am  tired  considering  it.  Let 
Mother  make  her  own  arrangements.  ... 


THE   MEETING-GROUND       335 

The  Dowager  Duchess  to  Sir  George  Trench- 
ard  —  now  in  East  Africa. 

Iveagh  is  extraordinary.  His  vanity  and  self- 
sufficiency,  used  as  his  brother  is  to  him,  really 
weary  Wickford  out.  Now  I  leave  you  to  judge, 
George.  .  .  .  Wickford  brought  the  child  over 
(James)  who  is  really  quite  a  sensible  child, 
and  more  docile  than  anyone  would  expect  of  his 
parentage.  He  is  not  the  least  afraid  of  Lionel, 
and  often  comes  of  his  own  accord  and  talks  to 
me.  .  .  .  Well,  it  was  arranged  he  should  go 
back  to  France  when  I  did:  and  instantly, 
Iveagh  chose  to  make  a  fuss  about  it;  merely 
because  I  have,  on  mature  consideration, 
changed  my  date.  Poor  little  Kells  put  in  a  plea 
for  his  birthday,  and  since  his  birthday  deserves 
at  least  as  much  attention  as  the  nuptials  of  the 
ladies'  maid,  I  decided  to  stretch  my  own  holi- 
day to  include  it,  —  merely  a  few  days.  I  sig- 
nified as  much  to  Colonel at  Boulogne,  and 

to  Elizabeth  in  Paris,  who  was  making  her  ar- 
rangements to  meet  James  at  the  port.  She 
merely  has  to  adapt  her  plan  to  mine.  Iveagh, 
apparently,  flew  out,  and  sent  his  brother  the 
strangest  letter,  simply  bullying  in  tone.  How 
Wickford  bears  it  I  cannot  see.  I  had  not  been 


336  JAMESIE 

intended,  of  course,  to  see  this  document:  but 
owing  to  rather  a  fortunate  accident,  I  did. 
Miss  Kitchin,  the  superannuated  female  typist, 
is  down  here,  supposed  also  to  be  holiday-mak- 
ing, owing  to  an  attack  of  so-called  neuritis  in 
her  hand.  Being  an  old  fuss,  she  makes  a  point 
of  sorting  Wickford's  post  for  him  every  morn- 
ing. What  happened  was  he  left  her  this  one  of 
Iveagh's  to  hand  on  to  Janet,  —  "  the  Duchess," 
he  said.  Kitchin  gave  it  me.  Then  she  began 
floundering,  of  course,  in  apologies  to  every- 
body. I  stopped  her  off.  I  told  her  not  to  dis- 
turb herself,  for  it  was  just  as  well  I  should  know 
my  sons'  views.  I  did.  Iveagh's  wording  was 
highly  characteristic,  I  need  say  no  more.  It 
was  both  disrespectful,  and  profane.  Lionel 
was  really  shocked,  when  I  told  him.  He  wrote, 
I  am  glad  to  say,  at  once,  —  I  carefully  re- 
frained. Shortly  after,  Iveagh  sent  back  what  I 
suppose  he  meant  for  an  apology  to  me.  .  .  . 

Canon  Oxborough  to  Iveagh. 

MY  DEAR  BOY, 

Are  you  well-advised  to  write  to  your 
Mother,  as  I  understand  you  did  in  your  last? 
It  is  not  to  be  supposed  you  do  not  trust  her. 


THE   MEETING-GROUND       337 

Have  you  forgotten  for  how  many  years  of  your 
own  youth  she  escorted  you  and  Wickford  (al- 
ways an  important  person)  safely  across  the 
Irish  sea?  You  are  nervous  and  fretful,  your 
brother  says  out  of  sorts.  Now  listen :  I  myself 
am  accompanying  Gertrude  to  Boulogne,  since 
I  want  to  have  a  look  at  my  poor  boys *  again, 
and  she  invites  me.  I  fit  it  in  before  the  wed- 
ding, at  which  I  officiate.  Will  you  accept  me, 
for  Jamesie,  —  and  perchance  apologise  to  her? 

Iveagh  to  his  mother,  unusually  'well  written. 

DEAR  MOTHER, 

That  is  all  settled  then,  he  comes  along  with 
you  and  Uncle  Lionel.  It  was  only  his  travel- 
ling alone  I  did  not  like  to  think  of.  You  would 
not  have  let  Wickford  at  that  age. 

The  Dowager  to  Sir  George  Trenchard,  post- 
script to  the  letter  quoted  before. 

James  is  going  on  with  the  Pennant  girls 
finally.  Lionel  is  far  from  well,  and  I  shall  not 
stir  till  I  see  him  better,  nor  allow  him  to  travel 
at  all.  It  is  lucky  this  pair  of  girls  going,  since 

1  Soldiers. 


338  JAMESIE 

the  child  knows  them,  and  since  (between  our- 
selves) I  should  not  care  to  have  Elizabeth  wait- 
ing about  in  a  foreign  port.  She  will  only  have 

to  come  round  to instead.    I  have  wired  to 

Colonel at  Boulogne  to  see  that  she  has  no 

trouble  about  it.  This,  George,  may  be  the  last 
from  me  for  some  time.  .  .  . 

Jamesie's  postcards  from  Holmer. 

DEAR  FATHER, 

Oh  this  is  a  Heavenly  old  place.  It 's  dif- 
ferent from  France  here.  There  is  a  new 
Groom,  polite,  with  clean  hands.  Aileen  says 
the  horses  like  him  so  it  seems  all  right.  I  wish 
you  were  here  to  jump  me  on  Gypsy,  but  can  I 
with  Him?  I  wrote  a  Public  letter  to  Mr.  H. 
from  Paris  sudenly.  Oh  was  n't  that  a  waste  of 

stamps!  ! 

J.  C.  S. 

DEAR  FATHER, 

This  is  No.  2  Mr.  H.  gave  me.  I  write 
Round  and  Round  it  just  for  a  change.  We  are 
all  well  except  the  Baby  who  rather  squeels. 
Nurse  says  its  his  Tooth.  Uncle  W.  says  he  's 
like  you.  Well!  I  think  I  am  because  Mr. 


THE   MEETING-GROUND       339 

Transome *  said  so.  He  has  not  gone  to  the 
War  such  Lots  to  do.  I  saw  your  uniform  in  his 
book  he  showed  me.  Can  you  read  this  weeshy 
finishing? 

Your  loving  J. 

DEAR  MOTHER, 

They  are  both  here.  It  doesnt  matter  now 
on  a  post  card  does  it?  I  heard  his  Bans  in 
church  to-day,  3rd  Time  of  Asking  which  is 
Last  oh  Mother!  Don't  you  think  the  Preacher 
must  be  glad  to  feeling  him  so  brave?  It  was 
here  you  know  he  played  Cricket  and  Uncle 
Lionel  knows  him 2  and  besides  all  the  men  and 
Pelham  who  were  looking  know.  So  it  is  n't 
like  a  common  Wedding,  is  it?  Goodnight, 
darling  Mother.  .  .  . 

[Not  quite  like  a  Common  Wedding,  Jamesie, 
with  such  love  behind  it :  but  it  took  place  with- 
out you. 

Shere  (I  hurry  to  close)  died  before  Linda 
ever  reached  him.  His  was  not  a  "  belle  mort," 
like  Steenie's,  far  from  it:  though  no  doubt  the 
"  little  clay  gods,"  his  doctors,  did  their  best. 
Nothing,  in  those  stilted  mansions  of  science,  in 
those  stinking  amphitheatres  of  surgery,  can  be 

1  Wickford's  tailor.  *  The  Preacher. 


340  JAMESIE 

"  fine  "  in  that  French  sense.  It  was  drawn  out, 
most  undramatically;  but  the  tears,  when  the 
end  came,  were  neither  few  nor  difficult  for 
Jack. 

Linda  made  a  rush  for  it,  reckless  of  every- 
thing, wild  at  the  news  he  could  not  wait  for 
her;  but  she  never  accomplished  even  that  stage 
of  honest  feeling,  —  fate  came  first. 

Joyce  followed,  close  up  to  her,  "  covering 
the  move"  in  her  careless  language;  that  is  to 
say,  on  the  top  of  a  woman's  courage,  so  much 
of  which  is  frittered  in  saving  faces,  where  faces 
had  far  better  not  be  saved.  Linda's  was  lost, 
of  course,  irrevocably;  still,  it  is  singular,  sig- 
nificant to  me,  that  in  the  most  selfless  act  of 
Joyce's  life,  she  should  have  been  just  concerned 
in  doing  that.  She  kept,  for  all  her  splendour 
and  her  self-assertion,  the  woman's  fragile  out- 
look, —  poor  little  Joyce. 

Jamesie  —  I  cannot  do  it,  it  breaks  me  — 
Jamesie  went  down  with  them  in  mid-Channel, 
with  his  mother  waiting  at  the  port  beyond: 
with  an  hour  or  two's  journey  between  him  and 
safety,  a  long  life-time  of  safety,  surely  promised 
him  in  her  arms. 

Wait!  Why  this  outcry  upon  me?  Jamesie 
was  not  singular.  Hundreds,  thousands  of  chil- 
dren, no  less  than  he  in  life  and  promise,  in 
worth  and  preciousness,  have  been  so  choked  of 
late  uncomplaining,  uncomprehending  the  thing 


THE    MEETING-GROUND       341 

that  grasped  them,  these  unutterable  years. 
Stand  back  from  our  tragedy  then,  and  keep 
your  breath  for  other  oracles,  who,  if  you  im- 
plore them  properly,  may  answer  in  time. 

What  had  Jamesie  to  do  with  the  fiend  in- 
carnate that  killed  him,  the  slashing,  grasping, 
cowardly  fiend  that  spreads  nets  and  mines  upon 
the  Eternity's  open  seas?  /  do  not  mean  Ger- 
many, Germany  is  not  what  we  are  making  for. 
Or  rather,  and  fearless  of  an  ungenerous  re- 
sponse, I  put  to  our  Enemy  here  and  now  this 
question.  .  .  .] 


APPENDIX 


APPENDIX 

HERBERT  went  forth  to  the  slaughter  himself,  before 
he  had  time  to  collect  the  final  letters,  order  the 
former  ones,  or  to  revise  the  fragment  given  above. 
He  left  me,  du  Frettay,  on  the  French  side  (in  both 
senses)  to  finish  the  recital,  and  offer  to  the  world 
of  Jamesie  such  letters  as  were  not  too  sacred,  — 
they  are  rather  hard  to  find. 

That  I  cannot  speak  of  it  at  length  will  be  ex- 
cused, for  I  was  through  it,  at  my  friends'  side.  I 
witnessed  that  long  agony,  a  night  and  a  day.  Even 
as  my  own  mother's  had  been,  which  once  she  con- 
soled, that  agony  was  uncertainty,  —  blank  uncer- 
tainty as  to  their  son's  fate.  For  six-and-thirty 
hours,  we  three  in  concert,  on  either  side  the  water, 
could  not  discover  whether  the  lost  child  were 
Jamesie  or  no.  They  thought  he  might  appear 
again  to  them,  their  angel,  wet  but  radiant.  .  .  . 

The  rescued  passengers,  rejoiced  to  be  quit  of  the 
damaged  boat,  lied,  inflated,  dribbled  invention,  as 
always  occurs;  never  does  the  fundamental  silliness 
of  humanity  overpower  one,  as  on  these  occasions. 
What  could  such  ape-like  existences  import  the 
world,  in  any  case,  prolonged  or  otherwise?  Added 
to  this,  others  of  the  lost  returned,  one  witnessed 
meetings.  Suir's  name  is  easily  misprinted,  he  told 
me,  and  easily  misheard.  Children,  such  as  his  was, 


346  JAMESIE 

do  without  their  second  name.  Walking  the  slopes 
of  earth,  the  morning  slopes,  one  is  very  sufficient. 
.  .  .  Lastly  we  met  the  tired  man  who  looked  him 
in  the  eyes  and  told  him,  set  him  at  rest.  Rest! 
Oddly  enough  it  is  Wickford's  face  under  the  lamps 
that  I  remember.  The  blow  glanced,  as  it  were, 
betraying  them.  Wickford,  the  weaker-minded,  had 
been  able  to  deceive  himself. 

Miss  Pennant,  who  was  saved,  completed  it;  she 
was  too  exhausted  to  recount  at  first.  Her  sister 
had  gone  down,  as  it  seemed,  nobly,  holding  up  the 
boy.  That  was  a  "  belle  mort,"  I  grant  you,  Her- 
bert, you  that  scoffed  at  our  knightly  term.  It 
seems  these  girls  were  "  record  "  swimmers :  that 
Mrs.  Monk,  who  was  drowned,  had  taken  many 
prizes  in  her  maiden  days.  That  is  a  most  rightful 
talent  in  the  English,  sea-surrounded:  and  I  like  to 
record  it  of  her,  even  while  it  served  not  to  save 
Jamesie's  life. 

I  sift  these  last  letters  idly,  the  fighters,  the  phi- 
losophers, men  and  women,  weak  and  strong,  the 
finished  kind  and  the  unfinished:  and  I  ask  myself, 
as  Herbert  did,  amid  so  many  tragedies,  the  cata- 
ract of  a  whole  generation  down  the  smooth  chute 
to  death,  —  is  it  worth  it?  Yet,  through  the  few 
pages  he  left  me,  his  meaning  pierces  dimly,  for  all 
are  in  agreement.  People  wide  asunder  in  sex,  in 
intellect,  in  sympathy,  echo  one  another,  even  to 
absurdity.  One  speculates  whether  a  whole  world 
might  not  echo,  in  a  not  too-far  period?  Is  it  so 
unthinkable?  Our  children  are  not  our  own,  in  the 
sense  of  being  slaves  to  our  prejudices.  Even  now 


APPENDIX  347 

they  are  growing  up,  and,  granted  we  refrain  from 
touching,  they  will  question  in  time.  How  far  are 
we  to  risk  their  displeasure,  their  bewilderment, 
their  wonder,  worst  of  all?  I  can  see  him  wonder- 
ing, seeking  a  little  already,  in  his  first  sunlight,  — 
Jamesie. 

Enough,  it  shatters  me.  I  suppose  I  am  out- 
wearied.  It  is  frightful,  the  mere  thought  of  such 
judges  watching  us,  —  outside,  —  God  of  Battles, 
any  sort  but  that!  It  is  not  fair,  this  experience, 
to  a  mere  man,  a  simple  soldier,  which,  in  my  coun- 
try's martyrdom,  is  all  I  ask  to  be.  See  only  these 
young  knights  that  follow,  their  palpable  disarray! 
And  if  it  undoes  us,  do  you  see?  —  what  of  the 
women  ? 


Car  dew  to  Ronald  Crawford. 

Where  are  you  ?  I  'm  nowhere.  On  my  honour, 
Janet's  telegram  turned  me  quite  green,  the  men 
noticed  it.  I  managed  to  say  a  kid  had  gone,  that 
settled  them,  though  some  looked  pretty  black.1 
They  '11  fight  the  better  for  it.  I  simply  can't  think 
about  Suir,  Wick  is  as  bad  in  this  instance,  and  as 
for  her  —  it 's  foul,  you  know.  Any  other  —  be- 
cause he  was  coming  on  so.  He  really  was,  it  would 
surprise  them,  I  dare  say,  if  I  could  show  him  some 
things  I  recently  had.  I  was  looking  over  them 
to-night,  kept  all  but  all,  which  is  more  than  I  do 
yours,  old  goat,  or  Mother's  either.  But  I  can't 

1  A  Scotch  regiment. 


348  JAMESIE 

do  it,  it  knocks  me.  Look  here,  I  want  to  hear 
facts,  but  not  from  females.  Can't  say  how  I  see 
this  a  man's  job;  anyhow,  men  have  to  avenge  him. 
After  all,  turning  it  over,  one  might  sooner  write 
to  him  direct,  —  he  might  allow  for  one,  more  than 
Janet's.  He  might  follow  —  that 's  all  I  can  think 
of,  anyhow.  Just  let  us  know  where  you  are. 

Ronald  to  Cardew. 

I  wrote  to  him,  managed  to  get  a  line  together. 
Perhaps  I  know  him  a  trifle  more  than  you.  I  said 
nothing  but  the  common  rot,  no  point.  It 's  all  such 
a  [Ronald  uses  language]  beastly  bloody  jam,  Shere 
was  right  about  it.  Jam  was  his  word.  .  .  .  He 
was  smashed,  you  know.  Suir  said  so  to  the  old 
parson,  —  used  the  word.  They  have  not  told  her, 
she  keeps  Joyce  Pennant's  version,  which  is  a  grain 
more  bearable,  that  the  kid  was  "  unconscious  "  in 
Linda's  hands,  and  drowned  so.  But  a  fellow  on 
deck  saw  it  happen;  some  block  or  spar  loosened 
in  the  first  explosion  swung  free  and  fell  on  a  boat- 
load, knocking  him  right  out,  and  rocketing  him 
with  some  others  into  the  sea.  You  bet  that  man 
found  out  the  facts,  —  I  should  n't  like  myself  not 
to  let  him  have  the  rights  of  things.  Grim  death, 
can't  you  see  him  at  it?  That  girl  Linda  flung  off 
her  things,  and  streaked  straight  after,  —  threw  her 
life  away.  A  clean  header,  like  I  have  seen  her 
often  at  the  baths.  There  's  no  end  to  the  girls.1 
Several  people  saw  her  catch  him,  and  that  was  all. 

1  Compliment. 


APPENDIX  349 

They  were  never  seen  again,  and  the  boy  was  dead 
anyway.  Suir  is  sure  of  it,  —  Joyce  could  not  tell 
him,  or  would  not,  sickened,  poor  lass,  but  he  is 
sure  by  everything.  The  parson  was  splendid,  went 
straight  to  them:  Wickford's  mother  was  utterly 
broken  up.  She  had  a  notion  she  was  responsible, 
somehow,  —  and  that  is  why  Iveagh  went  home. 
Janet  said  she  was  afraid  of  him,  —  his  mother,  I 
mean:  which  altogether,  considering  some  of  the 
scraps  you  and  I  have  witnessed,  seems  a  very  queer 
thing.  The  fact  is  she  is  on  her  last  legs  probably, 
and  he  knows  it,  —  Janet  will  tell  us  some  time. 
J.  was  on  the  spot  as  usual,  doing  nothing,  which 
was  the  only  earthly  thing  for  her  to  do.  .  .  .  No, 
I  shan't  write  to  women,  I  don't  feel  exactly  like  it. 
You  '11  never  guess  who  I  chose,  —  the  Frenchman. 
Iveagh  showed  me  him  once,  and  he  seemed  all 
right,  at  first  view  anyhow;  so  I  risked  it.  I  send 
you  what  I  got  from  him  —  English.  Mine  was 
French.  It  made  me  think  of  one  of  the  Latin 
fellows,  Virgil  or  somebody,  that 's  his  form.  It 's 
decent. 

R. 

[I  forebear  to  give  Lieutenant  Crawford's  French 
letter:  which,  however,  was  "  gentille,"  like  himself. 
I  marked  him,  on  the  occasion  he  mentions,  as  a  little 
enormous  Scotch  gentil-homme.] 

DEAR  MR.  CRAWFORD, 

I  have  received  your  note,  whose  request  for 
news  so  far  as  I  am  able  I  comply  with.  She  is 
wonderful,  working  as  before :  my  mother  was  help- 


350  JAMESIE 

less  to  persuade  her  to  cease,  when  she  returned 
from  ,  the  last  hope  gone.  Suir  had  a  tem- 
porary break,  but  he  is  better:  he  was  already,  as 
you  know,  far  from  well.  Wickford  is  shielding 
him  ably,  as  of  old,  in  their  schooldays;  and  I  try 
not  to  quarrel  with  that  family  tradition,  or  trick 
of  servitude,  to  which  his  talents  seem  destined,  and 
which,  at  such  a  juncture,  carries  him  from  his  wife's 
side,  home.  By  the  munificence  of  the  general 

B ,  to  whom  his  "  groupe  "  was  attached,  he  is 

permitted  nine  days  of  rest,  —  nine,  with  voyages. 
No  doubt  a  funeral  would  have  made  it  a  fortnight. 
We  may  not  mourn  now,  it  seems,  even  for  a  star 
like  that. 

There  is  no  speaking  of  what  it  means  to  him, 
truly,  nor  comparing.  It  seems  ordinary  to  say  that 
he  would  have  offered  his  own  life  twenty  times,  — 
we  all  knew  it,  did  we  not?  But  the  easiest,  I  have 
learnt,  is  never  asked  of  that  sort.  It  is  always, 
while  we  fool  or  fritter  the  time,  at  grips  with  the 
eternals,  out  of  sight.  I  thank  you  for  your  sym- 
pathy. I  would  that  by  any  suffering  of  my  own 
I  could  ease  him,  but  it  is  useless  to  ask.  You  will 
excuse  this  awkward  utterance. 

Yours  obliged, 

G.  DU  FRSETTAY. 

[Cardew  returned  it  to  his  brother  with  the  com- 
ment,—  "Star  is  good."  Good?  It  was  Milton. 
Yes,  and  the  "  forehead  of  the  morning  sky,"  just 
after.  The  forehead  of  the  sky,  that  was  Jamesie: 
his  regard,  fresh  and  mystic.  .  .  .  Yet  I  ask  you, 
even  in  this  distress  I  cannot  avoid:  is  that  country 


APPENDIX  351 

not  evidently  exceptional  that  can  produce,  at  either 
extreme  of  its  verbal  expression,  Milton,  —  and 
Cardew? 

I  subscribe  to  the  following,  and  I  thank  the 
writer.] 

YOUR  GRACE, 

Sophie  and  I  do  not  venture  to  express  our 
feelings,  but  our  happiness  is  dashed  goes  without 
saying,  and  could  you  in  any  way  convey  to  his 
lordship  your  brother  our  sympathy  in  his  great 
affliction,  it  might  seem  to  come  as  a  relief.  As  it 
is  we  are  weighed  down  by  a  Debt,  I  can  call  it  no 
other,  to  Mr.  James'  graciousness  in  minding  about 
us,  in  caring  about  us  so  continual,  and  in  blessing 
of  us  as  he  did  to  the  last.  It  is  not  my  own  feel- 
ing only,  for  I  compared  with  her,  and  it  is  hers 
as  much.  If  anything,  ever,  we  think,  can  make 
sweet  goodwill  between  the  countries,  all  so  different 
by  nature  and  origin,  it  is  spirits  like  that. 
Your  respectful  servants, 

F.  AND  S.  BLAKIE,  LONDON. 

* 

[He  enclosed  every  atom  he  had  ever  received 
from  the  child,  for  the  father's  eye  to  see.] 

Bess,  O  Bess,  what  shall  I  say?  I  dare  not 
come  near  you,  you  would  curse  me,  and  rightly, 
for  being  alive.  Linda  is  gone  with  him,  that  is  all 
I  can  think  of,  —  not  that  I  cared  for  Linda.  I 
saw  where  they  were,  had  been,  —  I  tried  to  go 
after,  I  had  a  belt.  But  the  men  would  not  let  me. 
They  would  take  care  of  me.  They  always  do. 


352  JAMESIE 

Oh  God,  I  wish  I  had  done  what  Linda  did. 
Why  could  n't  I  ?  I  must  be  a  coward  really.  You 
should  hear  them  talk  of  her  here,  the  Lieutenant 
too :  and  I  always  despised  her.  Maddie  says  she 
would  n't  have  either,  but  that 's  bedside,  of  course 
she  would.  Though  never  that  style.  Linda  was 
like  a  snake  diving,  —  I  suppose  you  never  saw  her, 
—  Herbert  has.  I  see  them  with  my  eyes  shut 
going  down  —  down  —  both  of  them.  Beautiful, 
were  n't  they  both  ?  It  was  all  orchestral.  I  say, 
Jack  would  have  liked  it.  Do  you  think  she  dived 
to  Jack? 

Then  there  is  yours,  —  immense :  and  I  behaved 
like  an  ass  to  him  to-day.  I  could  n't  get  a  word 
out :  but  he  frightened  me,  looking  like  that.  How 
nice  M.  du  Frettay  is,  watching  him.  I  love  them 
grave.1  They  were  miles  beyond  me,  miles.  Just 
being  decent  like  that  to  a  fool.  Only  I  felt  all  the 
time  how  he  must  be  loathing  me.  You  know,  it 
does  make  it  difficult. 

One  thing  more,  was  n't  there?  I  am  afraid  we 
teased  him :  teased  him  in  the  cabin,  but  he  was 
sweet.  Manners,  Maddie  is  right.  I  think  I  was 
jealous  of  Mad,  the  way  he  spoke  of  her.  He  was 
fond  of  her,  really,  —  Bess,  will  you  tell  her  so? 
I  can't,  though  she  is  here.  She  is  a  good  kid,  she 
is  better  than  I  am,  she  has  worked  more :  I  have 
enjoyed  it.2  I  tried  to  see  it  all  as  music,  a  new 
sort,  ripping,  showier  than  Strauss.  But  it  is  n't, 
it  is  not,  it  is  rank.  Reuss  wrote  so,  they  all  knew 

1  I  8  La  guerre,  —  confession:  et  elle  ose  le  dire! 


APPENDIX  353 

it,  the  old  ones.  It  is  the  wrong  side  of  music, 
weakening,  wallowing,  that  leads  to  Hell.  It  is  n't 
even  new,  it 's  as  old  as  the  monkeys.  But  what  is 
the  use,  talking  to  you  ?  Only  say  you  are  not  angry, 
—  you  say  it:  though  I  shan't  believe  you.  Either 
of  you.  I  can't  write  any  more. 

[I  refrain  from  comment  —  the  girl's  state  of  ex- 
haustion is  apparent.  I  am  assured  she  is  neither 
stupid  nor  heartless,  for  all  she  tormented  my  friend 
by  her  evasions,  during  the  interview  of  which  she 
speaks.  Iveagh  assured  me  of  it,  even  if  I  had  not 
made  certain  observations  myself.  One  excused  her, 
easily :  I  could  even  contemplate  conversing  with  her, 
in  a  state  of  sanity:  only  it  appears  to  me  unlikely 
that  "  the  Lieutenant "  (whom  we  both  observed) 
will  give  me  the  opportunity.] 

Sir  James  Byrne  to  Iveagh:  fragment  of  an 
otherwise  unquotable  letter. 

The  method  of  life  proves  itself  daily.  It  neither 
alters  the  good,  nor  glorifies  the  bad:  and  the  best 
it  wastes  steadily. 

Herbert  to  her  —  ditto. 

You  guarded  him  well  through  our  tumult:  now 
give  him  to  us,  we  need  him.  He  will  better  us  as 
a  witness,  when  the  time  comes.  He  is  the  first 
argument. 


354  JAMESIE 

John  Ingestre  Esq.,  to  him. 

Remember?  Freshness,  fitness,  temperateness, 
clarity,  —  what  they  call  innocence,  was  n't  it?  And 
that  nice  unconcern  they  have,  not  indifference  ex- 
actly, but  using  us  for  their  ends.  So  real  and 
rational,  good  Lord,  compared  with  our  present 
practices.  .  .  .  Look  here,  you  bear  with  romanc- 
ing. We  had  lately,  after  nine  hours'  unremitting 
cannonade,  a  thunderstorm.  A  great  washing  glory 
it  was,  ordinary  sort,  loud  perhaps  by  the  Lord's 
standard,  —  nothing  by  ours.  By  contrast  with  our 
viciousness  and  vulgarity,  what  you  would  expect. 
Anyhow  I  loved  it  so,  that  it  woke  me,  hastily.  I 
saw  our  entertainment  as  it  is,  and  I  said  so,  not 
quite  out  of  the  Scriptures.  This  here  is  a  superb 
convention,  superbly  played,  but  it  is  n't  anything 
really.  It  stands  for  nothing.  Respectable  people 
can't  even  look  at  it,  except  to  look  beyond.  I  saw 
straight,  that  once,  and  I  classed  it.  You  are  noth- 
ing but  a  pack  of  cards.1 

Iveagh's  doctor  in  the  East  —  weeks  late,  naturally. 

Remember  him?  One  stores  such  memories.  I 
still  can  feel  his  little  gripe  on  me,  lively  and  com- 
pelling, and  his  laughter  and  shyness,  that  sunny 
morning,  when  I  let  him  come  to  you  in  Ireland, 
after  his  great  emprise.  And  then  he  would  tell  us 
nothing  of  it,  for  all  our  prompting,  would  he? 
Only  choked  you  carelessly,  and  smote  you  with  his 

1  Quotation. 


APPENDIX  355 

clenched  fist  for  your  improbable  surmises.  Rather 
hard,  —  I  was  a  little  nervous  at  his  forcefulness : 
though  I  noticed  you  were  not.  You  would  have  let 
him  finish  you,  that  day — ,  you  told  me  as  much 
afterwards.  Have  you  forgotten  that?  .  .  .  Only 
—  do  not  now.  Be  careful,  my  dear  boy,  for  your 
wife's  sake.  I  am  a  little  fearful  you  should  follow 
him,  out  of  simple  curiosity.  .  .  .  The  dreams  in 
your  last  interested  me.  I  was  hardly  surprised  by 
my  daughter's  cable,  closely  following,  carrying  this 
news. 

The  Duke  to  the  Duchess. 

[In  answer  to  some  challenge,  —  Public,  hein?  — 
that  I  fain  would  see.  It  inconveniences  me  extraor- 
dinarily to  be  unacquainted  with  this  lady:  and  I 
trust,  when  the  war-map  is  rolled  up  and  put  away, 
and  Wickford  has  a  little  time  to  spare  from  his 
meals,  he  will  recollect  his  duty  to  the  Alliance,  and 
introduce  me.] 

I  do  not  think,  during  the  present  ghastly  state  of 
things,  which  holds  the  promise  of  ghastlier  daily, 
and  not  much  else,  we  men  in  respectable  thinking 
countries  have  ever  tried  to  hold  the  women  in. 
Why?  —  because  we  are  afraid  of  you.  Do  what 
we  will,  you  are  still  doing  in  schools,  and  nurseries, 
and  at  prayer-time  (I  do  not  say  church)  the  bigger 
half  of  the  business.  More  power  to  you,  my  dear: 
often,  I  think,  without  the  thought  of  you  to  bridge 
the  gulf  we  are  digging,  we  should  break.  Because 
we  are  not  as  bad  as  you  think,  you  mistake  us :  or 
rather  you  did  of  late  years  in  the  excitement  of  the 


356  JAMESIE 

moment.  We  do  not  necessarily  think  ourselves 
inspired  because  we  can,  by  the  infernal  efforts  of 
millions,  organise  ruin  to  this  extent.  It  is  grinding, 
black  necessity  that  drives  us:  common  duty,  com- 
mon humility,  may  I  say,  lit  up  by  a  little  light  of 
family  pride.  But  if  you  and  the  women  we  are 
guarding  see  a  bigger  light  ahead,  a  better  pride,  — 
as  Bess  does,  —  make  for  it:  never  say  we  selfishly 
held  you  in  in  critical  times:  particularly  when  it  is 
you  have  a  little  time  to  think.  I  have  my  religion, 
enough  for  this  one  life,  I  own  it;  but  if  you  get 
Kells  a  better  one  —  or  Aileen  —  I  may  be  talking 
rot,  but  I  own  this  thing  has  shaken  me  badly:  and 
Bess's  face,  when  he  brought  the  worst  to  her,  and 
she  said,  though  she  held  for  her  life  to  him, 
thoughtfully  as  a  worker  does  —  "I  think  he  was 
all  right."  I  give  it  her,  —  I  give  it  both  of  them. 
Surely,  darling,  we  who  argue  glorifully  that  none 
of  our  heroes  who  fall  powder-black  and  bloody  to 
the  elbows  are  "  wasted,"  may  let  them  argue  as 
much  of  little  Jim.  .  .  . 

[The  Duchess  pondered,  wept,  and  worked  him 
into  her  plans.  Of  this  I  am  positive,  although  her 
"  public  "  letter,  owing  to  Wickford's  stilted  cor- 
rectitude,  has  eluded  my  grasp.] 

Miss  Madeleine's  schoolmistress  to  her. 

The  answer  is  simple,  my  dear,  —  do  not  resign 
yourself.  Resignation  is  the  last  thing  they  can  ask 
of  us,  though  our  service  and  our  silence  they  may 
claim. 


APPENDIX  357 

Miss  (?)  Rochester,  Ireland,  to  Iveagh. 

It  is  not  the  sea  can  keep  him,  darling,  with  the 
bursting  ugliness  that  is  shaming  it;  and  it  is  not 
God's  Heaven  would  interest  him  nowadays  with 
shadows  shooting  at  you,  and  the  nightbirds  flitcher- 
ing  about.  There  is  nowhere  safe  for  a  child  the 
like  he  was  but  our  hearts  that  are  hot  to  withhold 
him :  and  this  one,  of  a  mother's  that  is,  though  sin- 
ful, will  share  him  with  you  best. 

[Suir  corrected  the  above,  which  I  had  nearly  re- 
fused, in  my  ignorance.  I  now  find  that  no  other 
will  stand  after  it,  —  unless  perhaps  one.] 

LADY  IVEAGH, 

I  cannot  speak  to  you,  my  lady,  in  your  sorrow 
as  people  like  the  Duchess  can,  who  with  children 
of  their  own  know  the  pain  of  bearing  them,  and 
keep  that  pain  in  their  hearts  concerning  them  until 
the  end  of  life.  But  I  do  know,  with  your  leave, 
a  little  of  the  other  trouble  of  training  them,  and 
all  children  I  have  had  near  me  I  watch  develop 
with  a  little  of  the  mother's  eye.  It  is  a  joy  when 
they  succeed,  a  grief  when  they  fail,  as  it  might 
be  that  of  their  first  teacher  in  some  sensible  school. 
But  yours,  my  lady,  was  more  than  that  to  me. 
Partly  because  of  his  kind  heart  and  amusing  ways, 
but  more  because  when  I  had  him,  it  was  largely 
in  his  mother's  absence,  which  you  will  understand. 
I  might  play  your  ladyship's  part  to  him  a  little 
without  self-blame  or  fear  of  unfairness;  and  in 
those  times,  no  doubt,  he  managed  to  catch  and  hold 


358  JAMESIE 

me  such  that  hearing  what  the  Duke  said  that 
dreadful  morning  broke  me  down.  Fortunately  as 
his  kindness  would  have  it  we  were  alone,  for  I 
could  not  have  kept  up  before  the  servants.  I  loved 
the  child,  I  will  not  say  better  than  Kells,  who  has 
taken  more  of  my  effort,  but  equally.  I  feel  for 
you  and  his  lordship  in  your  sorrow  more  than  these 
poor  lines  can  say.  May  God  help  you  and  grant 
you  consolation  in  your  work  for  others,  as  He  will 
surely. 

Yours  faithfully, 

CHRISTINA  T.  JOHNSTONE. 
(Nurse.) 


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